


The Lost Samurai

by tilda



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitute, Bondage, Daddy Issues, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Anyway, you might meet someone you like,' Fuji said.</p>
<p>Tezuka looked around the large, elegant drawing-room, with its couple of dozen men being served drinks and canapes by soberly dressed waiters. He had no intention of meeting someone he liked. He couldn't think of anything more disastrous for his career.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

Atobe Keigo threw parties for a living. There were double-page spreads of them in _Hai!_ magazine, the pictures angled on the pages as if scattered across a coffee-table. Atobe was in most of them, showing off his guests to the camera, hair almost white in the flash. He also gave parties that didn't appear in the magazines, that were known only to a few hand-picked, carefully vetted guests. Some of the guests paid to attend these parties, and some were paid.

Tezuka Kunimitsu played tennis for a living. Unlike some of his fellow pros, he didn't often appear in magazines. The media found him dull, especially compared to the only other world-class tennis-player Japan had ever produced, who had been happy to live up to his image as a colourful buffoon. Tezuka was sometimes dubbed The Machine or The Robot by lazy journalists. He didn't care. Tennis was the only thing that mattered.

Echizen Ryoma fucked men for a living. He was often one of Atobe's paid guests, and sometimes wished he could be seen, like the unpaid ones, in the magazines. He didn't want to be famous, he just wanted to annoy the piss out of his dad. But lately he'd been having second thoughts. He didn't care about the parties or annoying his dad anymore, and tennis was the only thing that mattered.

 

_Part One_

Tezuka hated parties. He held his glass of champagne and waited for this one to be over.

Fuji had been pestering him to come to Atobe-san's for a while now, and had finally spoken the magic words: _pro-standard clay courts_. There weren't many clay courts in Japan and the chance to practice on one out of season was too good to pass up.

'Atobe won't like it though,' Fuji had said on the drive up.

'Why not?'

'One of his party-rules is "Pleasure Not Business."'

Tezuka had concentrated on negotiating the turning off the highway and wondered what other idiotic party-rules Atobe had. Tezuka remembered him vaguely from the junior high circuit, but he'd disappeared before high school. His father's company had had an unfortunate encounter with some tax investigators and he'd had to leave Hyotei. As they drew up in front of a house that looked like a European wedding-cake (Atobe had, apparently, gone back up in the world) Fuji had said, 'Anyway, you might meet someone you like.'

Tezuka looked around the large, elegant drawing-room, with its couple of dozen men being served drinks and canapes by soberly dressed waiters. He had no intention of meeting someone he liked. He couldn't think of anything more disastrous for his career.

There was low music on in the background and the conversation was lively without being obnoxious. Every now and then, he noticed two or three of the men disappearing quietly, but more guests arrived so that the room never felt empty. It was not, he admitted to himself, quite the crazed scene of bondage and poppers and public sex he had envisioned. He watched Fuji working. He was talking to a group of three young men who suddenly burst into laughter while Fuji's expression remained inscrutable.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder and Atobe was suddenly there, standing too close. Tezuka knew that if he moved away it would only make Atobe move closer.

'Kunimitsu, how wonderful to have you here.'

Tezuka winced inwardly. When they had arrived, they'd had their coats taken and glasses of champagne put into their hands, and it had transpired that another of Atobe's rules was Given Names Only, in the Western style. Even though Tezuka knew this was not just one of Atobe's whims but served to protect everyone's anonymity, it had taken every ounce of Tezuka's patience not to walk back out to the car.

'This is Yuushi,' Atobe said, drawing forward a tall, bespectacled, very good-looking man. Apart from the looks, he was possibly the most unlikely rent-boy Tezuka had ever seen. 'He's a John Coltrane fan too,' Atobe went on, even more surprisingly. 'I'm sure you'll have lots to talk about,' he finished, and shimmered off.

Yuushi regarded Tezuka coolly through his glasses.

' _Blue Train_ is a wonderful record, don't you think?'

'I prefer his later work, actually,' responded Tezuka before he could stop himself.

'Oh really? I find it rather austere.'

They began to talk. Tezuka took a few sips of champagne. Yuushi was an intelligent man and for a moment Tezuka forgot where he was and asked him what he did, as if this was a normal party, and this was a normal conversation between two normal strangers.

'Whatever you want,' responded Yuushi, holding his gaze.

Tezuka's brain curled up like a snail going over salt. Something must have shown on his face, because Yuushi continued their conversation smoothly as if nothing had happened.

It wasn't that he had never paid for sex. It was just the place he usually went to had a two-way mirror, he made his choice and they went to a cubicle upstairs. The whole transaction was over in half an hour. The idea of having an intelligent conversation with the person he paid for sex was a strange one to Tezuka.

A waiter paused beside them, and as Tezuka turned to have his glass refilled his eye was caught by Atobe perched on the arm of a sofa, his hand propped behind the head of a boy. The boy was slumped on the sofa, legs splayed, looking bored and arrogant. As Yuushi talked, Tezuka found himself watching out of the corner of his eye. Atobe introduced the boy to two men, one of whom addressed him and the boy responded without a smile, barely even looking up. Atobe and the men laughed. Then Atobe touched the boy on the shoulder, and as the boy turned to look at Atobe his gaze passed Tezuka's. But instead of sliding past, his eyes locked on Tezuka's, the arrogance and the boredom vanished and he was suddenly alert and sharp. The moment held for a beat or two, then Tezuka broke it and turned back to Yuushi.

Yuushi was saying something about _Sketches from Spain_ , but Tezuka was only half paying attention. He had seen that switch in expression too many times to have mistaken it for anything else. The boy knew who he was. Suddenly he understood Atobe's party rules, or at least one of them. At Hanamura's, no-one except Hanamura herself had a clue who he was. He saw that Atobe and the boy were now in urgent whispered conference and the men who had been talking to them had moved off elsewhere. Finally the boy got up and Atobe watched with undisguised irritation as he walked off. Atobe's eyes caught Tezuka's and the irritation fell away like a veil to be replaced with the PR smile and a roll of the eyes. Tezuka was unwillingly impressed.

Then the boy was at his elbow.

'Yuushi, Keigo wants a word,' he said shortly. Yuushi turned to look at the new arrival. Although the boy was only a little shorter than him, Yuushi managed to give the impression that he was looking at a small child.

'Really? What about?'

The boy didn't blink.

'Mukahi's stuck in Tokyo again.'

Something in Yuushi's expression hardened and sealed over. He turned and inclined his head towards Tezuka.

'It has been a pleasure talking with you Kunimitsu. Perhaps we can continue later.'

He looked up enquiringly through his spectacles, and Tezuka responded with a small bow, but said nothing. He and the boy watched Yuushi move off towards Atobe, neither speaking until he was out of earshot. Tezuka turned to find the boy already looking straight at him, his gaze no rent-boy simper, but penetrating and interested.

He saw at once that it would be pointless to dance about the issue.

'You know who I am,' he said.

'You shouldn't have played through your injury in that match against Hewitt,' the boy replied without missing a beat.

Tezuka had been expecting a gush of admiration, and perhaps a reference to his last match or tournament. But the match the boy was referring to had been played six months ago, and the injury was something he and Inui had argued over at the time. Tezuka found his tongue and responded.

'Thank you for your concern,' he said, returning the boy's glittering stare. 'I am fully healed now.'

'Yeah, but you've lost your form.'

The boy was right, he'd been dropping sets to weaker players he should have beaten easily. He wanted to say something sharp, to dismiss the boy.

'You follow my career closely, I see,' he found himself saying instead.

The boy dipped his head and smiled in an odd sideways manner, as if he was trying not to, and Tezuka felt the corner of his own mouth twitch in response.

'You could say that,' the boy said.

Suddenly he leaned forward and placing his mouth close to Tezuka's ear he said in a low voice, 'I want to take you upstairs.'

Tezuka felt the tickle of the boy's whisper and blood rushed to his groin.

Well, Atobe had certainly found his calling. Tezuka didn't know where he got his employees, but he trained them well. And this one had pressed a button Yuushi hadn't managed to find. It was not what he had planned, and Fuji would be insufferable tomorrow, but he decided to accept the boy's offer. Tezuka followed him out of the room and was aware of Atobe and Fuji breaking off their separate conversations to watch them leave.

~

The boy took him down thickly-carpeted corridors lit at intervals by candelabra in wall-sconces. The hum and music of the party were long-gone; sound was muffled by the carpet and all Tezuka could hear was the soft shush of their footsteps. He noticed that the boy was barefoot. It made him think about the feel of the carpet against bare skin.

The boy eventually stopped at a door, and Tezuka was not entirely sure he would be able to find his way back to the entrance hall. The room was furnished in keeping with the rest of the house: the same sumptuous carpet, high ceiling, a four-poster bed hung with swags of some heavy fabric Tezuka guessed to be silk, floor-to-ceiling windows. He walked further into the room and noticed his bags (one with his rackets) sitting at the foot of the bed. Clearly, the boy had known exactly where to come, and again Tezuka found himself involuntarily admiring the smoothness of Atobe's operation.

But he was not here to admire Atobe. This part of the evening, at least, was familiar to him. He began to pull at his tie and unbutton his shirt. He turned, expecting to see the boy peeling off his t-shirt.

But he was making no move to undress. In fact, he had clearly not moved since he had come into the room. He was standing with his back against the door and staring at Tezuka.

'I don't want to fuck you,' he said suddenly.

Tezuka paused mid-button, trying and failing to be insulted. He waited for the boy to go on, not even bothering to guess at what he was about to say. This evening was clearly beyond him. The boy looked nervous yet strangely elated. Finally he spoke.

'I want to play you,' he said.

Tezuka let his hand fall to his side. He knew he should laugh. He knew what he was supposed to say to a rent-boy – not very tall, not very powerful-looking – who was asking him, Tezuka Kunimitsu – Japan's number one tennis-player – for a match. He should push the kid onto the bed, fuck him through the mattress, then throw him out so he could get a decent night's sleep, and in the morning he should warn Atobe that one of his stable was bothering clients.

But he didn't.

He stood there, feeling the rich carpet through his socks, and remembered the argument he'd witnessed earlier between the boy and Atobe, how he had balked Atobe, possibly risking his job. He remembered, too, the way the boy had spoken to Tezuka himself.

The boy was moving towards him, saying something else.

'...get your money back and I'll pay you double that for the match.'

It was hopelessly little, much less than he would have charged for a professional coaching session, if he gave them. The boy was standing in front of him now and Tezuka suddenly thought that the boy was going to reach out and touch him, but he didn't. Instead, he knelt in front of Tezuka, bending all the way down to place his forehead on the carpet at Tezuka's feet. Tezuka looked down at the boy's head, the hair so black it was almost blue, and suddenly he wanted very much to touch it.

'Get up,' he said softly. The boy got up and stood in front of Tezuka, quite close now, almost as close as Atobe had been when he had made his introductions, and waited for the answer. 'One set, tomorrow morning at seven. Tell no-one.'

The boy didn't smile exactly, but his face opened out and relaxed.

'Thank you,' he whispered and in a flurry of movement Tezuka barely had time to register the boy had kissed him on the cheek and then was at the door, reaching for the handle.

'Wait,' Tezuka said, and the boy stopped and turned. 'What's your name?'

There was an almost imperceptible hesitation before he spoke.

'Ryoma,' he said. 'Just. Ryoma,' he added quietly as he opened the door.

Then he was gone, and the sound of the door snicking closed echoed softly in Tezuka's head. He touched the damp spot where the boy – Ryoma – had kissed him and wondered what on earth he thought he was doing.

~

Tezuka got to the courts at 6.45 and found Ryoma already there, hitting balls across the court. He was relieved to see the place otherwise deserted, though he doubted that many of the guests at these parties counted a dawn tennis-match as one of the highlights of their revels. Not even Fuji, who had come to his door earlier with his eyes barely open, and not because he was smiling. Tezuka had glimpsed a rumpled bed behind him, sheets uncovering a thigh and a shoulder.

'Te'ka,' Fuji had mumbled, 'what...'

'I need you to tell me where the tennis-courts are. Don't ask why.'

There was a long silence during which Tezuka wondered whether Fuji had fallen asleep on his feet. But then he'd spoken again, surprisingly clearly.

'They're east of the house. Take the side-stairs at the end of this corridor. Go out the door at the bottom and take the left-hand path through the garden. You'll see them.'

'Syuusuke…' a voice rumbled quietly from inside the room. Fuji smiled slightly, his eyes closing completely.

'Thank you,' Tezuka said. Just as he was turning to go Fuji had said in a soft, sing-song voice,

'Don't wear yourself out for this afternoon, Kunimitsu.'

 

He and Ryoma nodded at each other. Ryoma was wearing a baseball cap that hid his eyes and Tezuka saw a professional-looking racket-bag at the foot of the umpire's chair. Perhaps Atobe kept these in an equipment room somewhere for his guests. Perhaps it was simply another element in a seduction, only one much more elaborate than Tezuka was used to. He had woken after a few hours of fitful sleep, not quite sure what had happened, and as doubtful of Ryoma's sincerity as he had been convinced of it the night before.

Tezuka watched him make a few practice serves. His ability seemed real enough. Tezuka did a few stretches and Ryoma continued hitting until Tezuka was ready and walked onto the court. Ryoma had been about to slam the ball, but he stopped mid-swing.

'Shall we start?' said Tezuka.

'Yeah,' Ryoma responded gruffly and they both came to the net. Tezuka took a coin from his pocket.

'Heads or tails?'

'Tails.'

Ryoma won the toss and chose to serve.

Tezuka had no trouble returning his first serve, but he was surprised at the level of spin and power behind it. He placed the return within reach but in such a way that Ryoma would have to stretch for it. Ryoma, fast and delicate as a cat, reached it easily and sent it thudding down the line past Tezuka. Tezuka heard it hit the court-fence. He looked at his opponent. Ryoma had not made any sign of victory, nor was he looking smug at having got a shot past the great Tezuka, nor was he even at the baseline bouncing the ball, preparing to serve again. He was standing at the service line looking furious.

'Fifteen-love,' Tezuka said, because it was the only thing he could say.

Ryoma spun on his heel and stalked back to the baseline.

Tezuka had no intention of letting the boy win – that would have insulted them both – and he was sorry that Ryoma suspected this of him. Clearly though, Tezuka had underestimated him.

He broke Ryoma's serve and took the game without letting another shot past him. When Tezuka called it, Ryoma was breathing hard and smiling slightly, in that odd sideways manner he'd seen last night. He had gone after every shot Tezuka had slammed at him, even making a valiant dive for the drop, and had managed a return or two that surprised. Then Tezuka launched his service game. He ratcheted it up a few notches just to see if the boy was as good as he suspected. Ryoma stayed on his tail throughout the game, even though Tezuka took it eventually.

Tezuka had a friend in Yokohama who played Go, and he knew that game was sometimes taught not by verbal instruction, but by playing a certain kind of game, with certain kinds of moves, specifically for the purpose of teaching. He tried to play tennis like this now, because he had realised – had maybe realised the moment the boy had taken that first point off him – that this boy did not belong here. He understood now everything about Ryoma's manner the night before. If this was the one chance the boy got to play a match like this, then Tezuka was under every obligation – to the boy's incipient talent if nothing else – to use his own skill to make it as good as he could for him. He had something Ryoma needed and he gave it to him in the only way he knew how. He wondered if Ryoma understood this, or whether Tezuka was simply the first pro who'd crossed his path.

They played on, Tezuka raising his level of play with each new game, drawing Ryoma behind him. He saw the boy work harder, stretching for difficult shots, using all the power he could muster on his returns. Tezuka was pleased and had to bite his lip to stop himself shouting out advice. He avoided thinking about what Inui would have said if he had been here.

Tezuka won, of course, but Ryoma managed to take two games off him. By the time they had finished Tezuka raised his play so far he was playing at the same level as he would have against a low-seeded pro in the early stages of a tournament. The boy had clearly had professional coaching. Tezuka couldn't imagine where, or with whom, or why. He had picked up some bad habits and there was the ghost of someone else's style in the way he played. Tezuka wanted to get rid of those habits and find out who the ghost was. He wanted to know how the boy had got here. He wanted to tell him how good he was.

As they shook hands over the net they gripped for slightly longer than they would have if there had been anyone else present, and Tezuka held the boy's gaze. Ryoma let go of his hand and stepped back to make a shallow bow. He said 'Thank you very much', and just like the night before, he was gone before Tezuka had time to register it. Tezuka heard the court-gate rattle and watched as the boy raced up through the gardens, his tennis-bag bumping against his back.

~

 

'...ka.' Tezuka felt a light touch on his shoulder. 'Tezuka,' he heard, the voice louder now, and he realised he was waking. His neck was twisted from having fallen asleep in the armchair, and he felt moleish and irritable. It was Fuji's voice, near his ear.

'Lunch is being served. Though perhaps you'd prefer coffee?'

Tezuka wished he hadn't been found sleeping. He was not sure he liked the idea of being asleep with Fuji awake nearby. He took off his glasses which had become dislodged and ran his hands over his face. Atobe-san had an excellent selection of crime novels but not even the new James Ellroy had been able to keep Tezuka from giving in to the combined effects of the champagne the night before, the early morning and the surprisingly strenuous match.

'How was the match?' Fuji asked.

Of course there was no hope that Fuji would have avoided mentioning it.

'Fine,' he responded carefully as he got up from the chair and resettled his glasses.

'I'm a little jealous, you know.'

'We will play this afternoon, Fuji.'

'Oh no, that's not what I meant,' Fuji said evenly. 'I thought I would arrange your first match with Ryoma.'

Tezuka looked sharply at Fuji.

'You knew about him.'

'Of course, Kunimitsu. He's why I brought you here.'

Tezuka repressed a surge of irritation. He walked towards the library door.

'There is nothing I can do for him Fuji,' he said, the door-handle cold in his palm. He heard Fuji suddenly close behind him.

'Of course,' he said softly. 'I just thought you might enjoy playing him.'

~

When he walked into the drawing-room that evening, it was busier than the previous night and the atmosphere had changed. Roulette and card tables had appeared, and through the French doors Tezuka could see lights flashing over the shadowed shapes of moving bodies, and he could hear the distant thump of music. As well as the smart stewards with trays of wine and champagne, there were tureens filled with bottles of beer nestled in ice. Tezuka took one of these.

He had played Fuji that afternoon and was relieved when he hadn't mentioned Ryoma again. Despite what he had said in the library, an idea had germinated after his match with Ryoma, and had grown and developed so that by the time he walked into the party he had decided to find Atobe for a quiet word. Perhaps Fuji had known that no other persuasion was required, that playing Ryoma had been enough. He avoided thinking about Ryoma at all. He hoped he would not see him this evening. He could only imagine that he would say something unwise.

Atobe did not seem to have appeared yet, but he saw Yuushi watching a card-game and went over. There were four men playing poker and one of them looked up and caught his gaze, holding it. He wore a trilby hat and red hair half-covered one hazel eye as he looked at Tezuka from under the brim. There was no flash of recognition, just an honest come-on. Yuushi murmured in his ear.

'That is Yuki. He arrived today.'

Despite his momentary lapse with Ryoma last night, Tezuka knew he would be spending the rest of the weekend as an observer. He watched the game for a little while longer but found poker dull and was tired of avoiding the suggestive glances of the red-haired boy, so he made his way towards the French doors and the dancing. When he arrived in the doorway he noticed a strange rippling quality to the flashing lights and realised that the dance-floor was above a dimly lit swimming pool. The reflected artificial light played over the dancers' faces and moving limbs, making them seem unreal, like shape-shifters, one moment beautiful, the next menacing. Even if Ryoma was amongst the pulsating crowd Tezuka doubted whether he would have recognised him. He still couldn't see Atobe anywhere.

Fuji had mentioned that there were some traditional water gardens beyond the pool terrace. Perhaps Atobe preferred their tranquility. He made his way around the dance-floor and out into the grounds beyond. The night was unseasonably mild and as he left the sounds of the party behind him he began to breathe deeply and easily.

He heard the sound of gently running water and knew he must be close, and around the next corner the landscape opened up onto a pond spanned by a simple stone bridge. Lilies and other foliage covered one end, while silvery-green lichen-covered rocks nestled at the other, and mature willows bowed heavily over the water. It was almost completely dark now, but there were discreetly placed lights so that the trees and lake could be seen to advantage. They glinted off the water, and the lichen on the rocks seemed to glow. It was quite lovely. Tezuka wondered if there were any koi and crossed to the middle of the bridge, leaning over the side to look into the water. He saw flashes of white and orange as the fish powered lazily through the lights under the waterline and he rested his arms against the side of the bridge, watching the fish appear and disappear hypnotically as they moved through the water.

There was no sign of anyone else around the lake, let alone Atobe, and he knew he should continue his search in the house. But the peace made him want to linger in the garden and he continued on the path around the lake, guessing that the view across the water up to the house would be magnificent.

As he was descending the other side of the bridge, he realised he had been mistaken and there was someone else by the lake, standing just off the path ahead of him. At first Tezuka thought that the man – because it must have been a man, he hadn't seen a single woman since he got here – was looking out over the lake, as Tezuka himself had been doing a few moments ago, and he was about to walk on by with a perfunctory greeting. But as he drew closer he realised that the man had his back to the water and appeared to be looking across the path which Tezuka thought rather odd until he realised that there was not one man but two, and the second was on his knees. The couple was half illuminated by the path-light and Tezuka wondered why, given the context, he hadn't understood this scene the minute he had laid eyes on it. He was irritated at having his walk ruined and was turning back to the house when the kneeling man moved back and the dim lamplight fell on his face. Tezuka froze.

Kneeling with his thighs splayed around the other man's ankles, fencing him in against a low wooden railing, was Ryoma. Tezuka could see Ryoma's cheeks hollowing and the occasional flicker of tongue as he moved his mouth over the man's cock. His eyes were closed and he was completely, professionally absorbed in his work. The man had one hand on Ryoma's head, watching him, and he was beginning to breathe hard.

Tezuka's emotions were numberless, unnameable. He wanted to drag Ryoma away. He wanted to do something violent to the man. He reached out a hand to lean against the cool stone of the bridge, riding out the unfamiliar compulsion to do harm to another human being. He tried to make sense of the difference between this Ryoma on his knees and the extraordinary grace of the tennis-player he saw this morning. He couldn't. He closed his eyes.

He was hard, of course, as hard as it was possible for him to be without someone touching him. It was a physiological reaction, pure and simple, he told himself. It meant nothing. He heard the man make a noise and helplessly, he opened his eyes. They were deep into it. The man was leaning his head back and moaning now, holding Ryoma's head with both hands and trying to thrust inside his mouth, but Ryoma was gripping him firmly, controlling him, and Tezuka experienced another spurt of muddied emotion. He knew he should have turned away and left quietly, not just out of courtesy, but for his own peace of mind, but he found himself rooted.

Eventually he did turn and leave – he could tell the man was close to coming and he realised that this was one thing he could not witness. His earlier peace of mind was wrecked and any notion of finding Atobe had vanished. He moved automatically, not thinking about where he was going. He walked up to the house, around the happy dancers, and back into the party. Yuushi was still there, watching the same poker game, and he realised that not much more than ten minutes could have passed since he left. He was still half-hard from what he had just witnessed. He found himself walking over to the table and taking the free seat next to the red-haired boy. The boy was slouching in his chair, his card-hand resting on the table, the other nursing his chips. The cards were being dealt again and he looked sidelong at Tezuka from under lashes far too long for a boy.

'You like poker?' he asked.

'No,' replied Tezuka.

Still holding Tezuka's gaze, Yuki lifted his hand to accept another card, then laid it back down on the pile.

'Why are you watching then?'

And Tezuka knew that he was no longer an observer but a participant.

'I'm not watching the game,' he said. It wasn't subtle, but at this moment Atobe's tasteful environment was too slow for him. Yuki understood and pushed several piles of chips to the centre leaving him with only a few.

'Sure you can afford it, Yuki?' someone at the table asked.

Yuki flicked his eyes over, but before he could answer, someone else had done so.

'Those chips aren't real money. They're just for show.' The voice was lazy, and had a slight husk to it. Tezuka knew exactly who it belonged to without looking up.

Ryoma was standing at the other side of the table looking straight at him. He glanced without thinking at Ryoma's mouth and wondered if it really did look a little swollen. Ryoma was joined by Atobe, appearing as if out of nowhere, laying a hand on Ryoma's shoulder. Tezuka couldn't tell if it was a gesture of possession or warning.

'Ryoma, you always spoil the fun,' he said calmly. Ryoma didn't move or acknowledge Atobe. He just kept looking at Tezuka.

'Guests should know what they're getting,' he said, and his gaze slid over Yuki, who curled his lip and looked away. Tezuka waited for Ryoma to be reprimanded for being so crass, but Atobe just smiled, whispered something in Ryoma's ear and steered him away from the table.

'Please continue to enjoy your game gentlemen,' Atobe advised smoothly over his shoulder. Tezuka stood up.

'Are you done here, Yuki?' he said. It was barely a question.

'Sure,' Yuki replied, flipping his cards over. He got up without looking to see what they were.

'See ya, guys,' he said to the table and turned to let Tezuka take him by the arm and guide him towards the door.

As they moved towards Tezuka's room through the same corridors Ryoma had led him the previous evening, he tried not to think about the odd exchange over the poker table. Yuki was walking slightly ahead of him and Tezuka focused on everything about him that was different to Ryoma: his red hair, his slouching walk, his total lack of tennis. Once they were inside the room he lost no time.

'Undress, please,' he directed. Yuki smirked but tossed his hat to the nearest chair and shrugged off his braces one by one. He turned and slid a hand up Tezuka's chest to curl around his neck. Tezuka removed it.

'No. Just yourself.'

There was a pinch of displeasure at the corner of Yuki's mouth, but he said nothing and continued to undress. Tezuka knew that he had been 60,000 yen away from making a snitty remark back and the knowledge made Tezuka harder. He watched Yuki intently as he undressed, his gaze latching onto the fine tattoo of a dragon across his back that was being uncovered by increments. Yuki slipped his shirt down his shoulders, tugging his trousers slowly over his rear and the dragon was revealed to twist once before its tail came to a point just above the cleft of his bottom, as if making a polite suggestion. Yuki was standing by the bed now, looking over one shoulder at Tezuka, sleepy-eyed, knowing, and Tezuka thought about what it would be like to replace that expression with uncertainty and surrender. When Yuki bent forward over the bed, sliding his hands across the coverlet, spreading his legs and sighing a little as, Tezuka guessed, his naked cock touched the soft fabric of the bed-cover, Tezuka finally allowed himself to walk over to the bed. He covered Yuki's naked body with his own fully-clothed one, pressing one of Yuki's hands down into the mattress and ground himself powerfully against Yuki's behind, pushing him mercilessly into the bed and was satisfied to hear Yuki let out a long high moan that almost drowned out the knock that sounded suddenly against the bedroom door.

It was so unexpected that Tezuka wondered if he had imagined it, but Yuki appeared to have heard it too because they both stilled at the same moment, breathing heavily. It came again and this time it was unmistakable: knuckle against wood.

'Jesus,' Yuki hissed. 'Tell them to fuck off.'

'I will do no such thing. Get in bed and keep silent.'

Tezuka got up and walked towards the door, opening it and closing it quickly behind him.   
When he saw Ryoma's blue-black hair and mulish expression he felt such a surge of fury and tenderness he was left a little weak.

'What do you want?' he asked as grimly as he could.

'I want to play you again.'

Tezuka's erection throbbed.

'I'm a little busy at the moment. Couldn't you have found a more appropriate time to ask?'

'No,' Ryoma said, looking at Tezuka steadily.

They held each other's gaze for a long moment.

'I don't think that would be a good idea,' Tezuka said at last.

'I told you, I'd pay you.'

'I am not a coach.'

'You coached me yesterday,' Ryoma said. 'I still haven't paid you for that, Tezuka-sensei,' he persisted.

The honorific undid him. Whenever there was a junior Japanese player on the tour they called him 'sensei', but there was usually something a little arch, a little insincere in the way they use the word. But now Ryoma was using it, and he meant it. He almost reached out to touch Ryoma's hair, as he had wanted to do the previous evening, but instead he said helplessly 'Ryoma-kun, I don't...' and broke off. Ryoma only looked at him more keenly.

'Don't what?'

'I don't want your money.'

As soon as it was out of his mouth he regretted it. He knew what it sounded like. Ryoma's expression changed.

'Something else then?' he said, moving forward.

Tezuka knew what he meant, it was obvious, but the tone was wrong. Ryoma's voice should have been suggestive, coquettish, even, but it was frank, as if he genuinely wanted to know the answer. Tezuka's tongue felt dumb. He tried to convince himself that Ryoma had just seen his desire and responded to it because that was his job. When Ryoma took a step closer and said 'payment in kind' in a very quiet voice, it should have just confirmed this suspicion. He heard 'no' in his head, and he felt his palate and tongue make the shape of the word, but his throat made no sound and he did not move back or push Ryoma away. For three heartbeats neither of them moved, and then Ryoma leaned forward and pressed his mouth gently against Tezuka's.

The kiss was soft at first, ruthlessly soft. Tezuka felt Ryoma's fingers against his cheek and could taste the last thing he ate or drank, something sweet and vaguely artificial. Then Ryoma's tongue swept into his mouth and he was taken somewhere dark and hot. He returned the kiss without thinking, his tongue sliding against Ryoma's, sinking into his mouth, its wet intimacy like sex, making his brain shut down. By the time he tore his mouth away from Ryoma's, whispering 'no', his heart was in flames. His fingers were tangled in Ryoma's hair and he stared into his eyes. The colour was high in Ryoma cheeks, and his expression was one fierce demand.

'No,' Tezuka said again, and turned on his heel, shutting the door against him.

He fucked the boy in his bed but didn't bother to stop the images of Ryoma that flooded his brain and made him come. When they were done he dismissed Yuki – tipping him hugely – and packed the little he had brought into his bags. Fuji would be angry at being stranded, but that couldn't be helped. It was not possible for him to stay in this house any longer. He found one of the stewards, had his car fetched and left for Tokyo in a spray of gravel, driving all the way at just over the speed limit.

 

_~end of part one~_


	2. Chapter 2

In the weeks that followed, Tezuka plunged himself into a gruelling training schedule. Inui had been surprised to receive his call at first: they had just been in Shanghai, which always denoted the end of the tennis year and time to rest -- for a couple of weeks at least -- before training started again in January for Melbourne. But it didn't take long for Inui to get into the spirit of things.

In the end, Fuji hadn't been angry at him for taking the car, but he had been dangerously curious about why Tezuka had left Atobe's early. He bought Tezuka lunch more often than usual, and turned up unexpectedly in the evenings with a new cactus or a handful of pebbles for his aquarium. When they met up to spar and Tezuka dropped the first three games, he was more direct. He came to the net, resting his racket on top of it.

'What's going on?'

Tezuka tested his racket strings and made a couple of swings into the air, his gaze sliding past Fuji's.

'Nothing. A bit of a head-cold today.' He jogged on the spot a little and then swayed into the receiver's position. 'Just serve.'

Fuji stood for another moment at the net, before making his way back to the baseline. Tezuka broke his serve and ultimately took the match, but it was a close call.

In the locker-room, Fuji tried another angle.

'Are you sleeping all right?'

'I'm sleeping fine.'

'What do you dream about?'

Tezuka caught his fingers in his locker-door and had to bite down on the urge to blurt out something profane.

'I don't remember my dreams,' he said, closing the locker-door carefully.

It was not quite true. Most of the time, Inui's training wiped him out and he slept so deeply he suspected he didn't have any dreams. But in the early hours of Christmas Eve he had woken suddenly, a voice quietly demanding a match echoing in his ears and his heartbeat clattering like something falling downstairs. He breathed deeply, trying to get it back under control before falling back against his pillow and waiting for sleep.

He'd had another couple of these dreams since -- in one of them they re-played that morning match almost stroke-for-stroke, but distorted, Ryoma looming impossibly huge across the net from him, and his racket felt small and light in his hand. These dreams always touched his waking thoughts the following day. Had the boy really been as good as he had thought? Or was it just wishful thinking and dream-fuelled imagination? He wished he could tell. He could ask Fuji, who would probably be delighted that Tezuka was showing an interest. Perhaps if he could engineer another meeting? It would be only too easy, surely, to play the boy again, just once, just to be sure.

And then he remembered that kiss in the hallway and knew he could not pursue this. It would fade with time, and he would soon forget.

After the New Year he and Inui flew to Melbourne to acclimatise in the weeks leading up to the Open. He ran, he trained, he ate well, he played, he gradually became used to the heat of Australian summer after the bitter Tokyo winter he had left behind.

And then he was knocked out in the first round by some French upstart in a baseball cap who made a poor show of hiding his glee in the fevered interviews afterwards.

~

  
Fuji met him off the plane. He held up a sign with Tezuka's name in carefully printed characters and a small motif of an animal in the corner. It was a bear this time. Tezuka didn't understand these signs of Fuji's but he rather liked them.

Inui could tell there was something wrong, but he never asked questions. His compassion was always best expressed in additional ankle-weights and a new juice. However, he was regretful about Tezuka's plan to start training so soon after the end of the Masters. Rest was, after all, as much a part of training as running and weights. Tezuka suspected he was right, but he couldn't imagine what he would have done with two weeks of leisure after his experiences at Atobe's that weekend. He might have gone insane, which would have had the same result.

He needed a change of scene.

Under the guise of visiting his family, he went to see his grandfather. He had missed his usual visit in December. His mother was pleased and his father greeted him in his usual wary manner.

'Oji-san's outside,' he said, nodding his head towards the garden.

Tezuka went over to the glass doors, sensing his father watching him covertly over the top of his paper. His father didn't really know what to do with him or how to speak to him. He had shown approval and pleasure at each stage of Tezuka's career, but always with an air of not being quite sure what he was approving, sometimes expressing wonder, under his breath, that Tezuka made a living from playing a game. And there had been that blow-up over the place at Tokyo University. It was different from Oji-san's judo, which Tezuka's father could see had a purpose.

Tezuka watched his grandfather moving slowly through each Tai Chi position under the leafless cherry tree. Although his body was layered with clothes against the cold, his control and elegance were still visible. He came to a rest, and stood for a moment, breathing, then made his way towards the house. Tezuka slid the door open and went out onto the deck to greet him.

When he saw Tezuka his features spread into a slow smile, as if he was just waking.

'Kunimitsu,' he said. 'I am glad to see you.'

'Oji-san,' Tezuka replied, smiling in return.

His grandfather sat on the edge of the verandah, looking out over the garden and Tezuka joined him. Their breath puffed into the cold air.

'We missed your usual visit,' his grandfather said.

'So did I. I'm sorry,' Tezuka said, genuinely regretful.

'Training hard, eh?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps too hard.'

Tezuka said nothing. The few times his grandfather had met Inui he had liked him very much. They shared similar views on coaching.

'I saw what happened in Australia,' he said and touched Tezuka's sleeve gently. Tezuka looked briefly at him and then returned his gaze to the garden in front of him. The sympathy in the old man's eyes was almost more than he could bear.

His father liked tennis, in the same way he liked baseball and soccer, and Tezuka's matches were for him part of his weekend leisure routine. He always caught any semi-finals and finals that Tezuka played. His grandfather, however, had never had any interest in tennis before Tezuka started playing, but when Tezuka went pro he signed up to the Tennis Channel and was always careful to watch every match he could, even the lowliest opening rounds.

'I lost focus,' Tezuka said finally.

'Your focus and discipline have always been your greatest strengths. Is something troubling you, Kunimitsu?'

How did he tell him? How did he tell him that all it had taken was someone standing across the net from him who was a particular height, and whose face was half-hidden by the brim of a baseball cap? Someone with a certain cocky swagger to his serve? That's all it had taken to make the Melbourne court shimmer and merge with his memory of Atobe's private court and that powerful boy opposite him. Instead of beating his opponent as he should have done, he had lost his concentration utterly and surrendered. How could he tell his grandfather he had been undone by a boy?

'Have you met someone?'

Tezuka coughed in surprise and felt the backs of his eyes prickle. He fixed his gaze on the tree at the bottom of the garden. He didn't answer but after a while his grandfather spoke again.

'When I was twenty,' he said, 'I was training for my second Olympics. I had a real chance for a medal. Unfortunately, that was also when I met your grandmother. I became distracted. I found it difficult to concentrate. One day my coach sat me down and told me that I was jeopardising my chances of a medal and that I had two choices. I had to forget about her or marry her.'

'So you married her.'

'Yes, I did. But not till a year later.'

'You won a medal though.'

'Yes, but if I'd married her sooner it would have been gold, not bronze.'

'Ah.'

'Come on. Let's go inside. Your mother's made enough food for an army.'

Tezuka followed his grandfather inside and thought sadly that his story wouldn't be much use in this case.

~

  
He caught the Shinkansen back to Tokyo, first class. For short journeys, he preferred it to flying.

'More tea, Tezuka-san?' The steward hovered with a teapot. Tezuka placed his cup on the tray for a refill and fielded a startled look from the woman across the carriage. He recognised her in turn as a prize-winning novelist. Not his kind of thing: unhappy women trapped in loveless marriages who always took three hundred pages to leave their husbands.

He turned back to look at the flatlands rushing by him with Mount Fuji moving at a more stately pace in the background. He was glad of his visit, which had been just long enough for him to start getting bored and look forward to getting back to the city. And his grandfather's story had been useful to him after all: it had made him realise how ridiculous his own situation was in comparison. He needed to forget Ryoma utterly; he needed distraction. He would call Hanamura when he got home.

Tezuka had lived in the same apartment building for two years. It had a foyer with some indoor palms, two sofas and a frightening concierge. In the two years he had lived there, he had never seen anyone sitting on the sofas. The concierge was the law: she let people in, or she did not. If they were allowed to enter, they went straight to the apartment where they had business; otherwise, they were not encouraged to linger.

As he pushed open the door to his building he noticed someone sitting on one of the sofas.

'It's for you, Tezuka-san,' said Kaneko irritably, as soon as he was inside. 'It's been here for an hour. Shall I call the police?'

Kaneko regarded the residents' insistence on associating with non-residents as a hazardous eccentricity she had to manage somehow. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware that the person was getting up and was coming towards him. Even before the familiar voice spoke Tezuka had a fleeting premonition of who it would be.

'Tezuka-san,' Ryoma said, bobbing his head respectfully.

'It's all right, Kaneko-san,' Tezuka said without taking his eyes off Ryoma. 'No need for the police.' Then to Ryoma he said, 'How did you get this address?'

'I made Atobe give it to me.'

Tezuka didn't doubt it. This boy seemed capable of making anyone act against their better judgement.

'What are you doing here?'

'You said I should ask at a more appropriate time.'

For a moment Tezuka didn't understand, then he remembered.

'I appreciate your effort in finding me,' he responded after a beat, 'but I'm afraid the answer is still no.' He walked away towards the lifts. He heard footsteps behind him and Ryoma's voice again, softer than before.

'I saw what happened in Melbourne. I'm sorry.'

Tezuka pressed the button to call the lift. He turned to face Ryoma because not to do so would be rude.

'Thank you,' he said. 'I lost focus, but I'm getting my form back now.'

Ryoma was in front of him again, his frank gaze becoming all too familiar.

'Just one more game,' he said quietly.

The lift bell sounded and the doors slid open. Tezuka stood aside to let the residents coming out of the lift pass. They looked curiously at Ryoma. Tezuka waited for them to leave and glanced at Kaneko at her desk-cum-fortress. She had gone back to watching the sumo on her portable TV and was chomping mercilessly through a carrot. He turned back to Ryoma. He felt himself relenting a little.

'Ryoma-kun,' he said, hearing the lift-doors slide shut behind him, 'you are a talented young man. You need a good coach and some sponsorship so you can give up working for Atobe. I have a couple of numbers I will get to you via Atobe-san, and I will recommend you if necessary.' He pressed the button to call the lift again. 'But Ryoma, I cannot devote time to anyone's tennis but my own right now.' The lift arrived. 'I'm sorry,' he said as the doors slid shut. Ryoma's expression had been urgent, as if he had been about to say something. As the lift rose away from the lobby, Tezuka heard a muffled thumping noise.

There was a CCTV camera in the lift connected to a monitor under Kaneko-san's desk. Tezuka knew she hardly ever looked at it but he still resisted the urge to rest his forehead against the cool metal of the lift wall. When he entered his apartment, instead of taking his bag to his bedroom and unpacking it as he usually did, he dropped it by the sofa and sat down. His heartbeat was just returning to normal. He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes and rested his forehead on his hands for some moments. He breathed deeply and tried, with difficulty, to empty his mind. Finally, he got up to fetch his racket bag – which he always kept ready by the door – and left for the club. He put his mobile in the hands-free in the car and called Inui en route. He would meet him there.

He had been a within a breath of accepting Ryoma's challenge. Just one more game, Ryoma had said. The words were so close to his own thoughts a month ago. What harm could one more game do? Just to see. It had been made more difficult by having Ryoma there in front of him, literally in the flesh. Hearing his voice, seeing his eyes, his neat, economic movements, different to how he remembered, but also familiar.

But he knew he had to steel himself. He would send him those numbers -- he had deliberately thought of coaches who didn't train at the same club. He would still be helping him, just keeping him at arm's length. Tezuka cleared his mind and thought only of meeting Inui at the club and playing.

~

  
Inui clearly sensed that things were difficult for Tezuka and his training regimes became increasingly inventive. One day, when Tezuka walked into practice Inui handed him a pair of wireless headphones. Tezuka looked at them doubtfully, but Inui said 'Just put them on,' and retired to the side of the court to tinker with a laptop. Tezuka always marvelled at Inui's inventiveness, but dreaded it slightly too. The headphones fitted snugly over his ears. At first all he could hear was a low murmuring which sounded vaguely familiar. Then Inui poked the keyboard and Tezuka heard a sudden, isolated cough and recognised the murmuring as the crowd at a tennis-match. Opposite Tezuka were two ball-machines. Inui started them up and instructed 'Hit only the blue ones.' Tezuka soon realised what he meant. The machines had been loaded with a random mix of green and blue balls, the colours being just close enough in tone that Tezuka had to concentrate to hit the correct one. Which he supposed was the point. But added to this was the sound of the fake crowd in his ears. It did sound uncannily real. Inui was syncopating the coughs (which were getting progressively louder and more obnoxious) with the blue and green balls. It was challenging, but he was doing well, until instead of a cough he suddenly heard someone shout 'Come on, Roger!' His next shot went wide, veering off into the next court.

He looked over at Inui. Inui looked impassively back at him over the top of the laptop.

'Focus,' he advised calmly.

Tezuka had always known that Inui was a genius, but this was the first time he suspected that Inui might, in fact, be evil.

The programme worked well. They only needed to use it for an hour a day, alternating it with more conventional training. Inui changed the ball-colour combinations – red and orange, black and grey, white and yellow – and the noises Tezuka heard through the headphones weren't always strictly ones he might hear in a match-crowd. Inui had an impressive array of squawks, farts and bleats to draw on in his attempts to distract Tezuka. After a month of this, Tezuka was confident that a full dragon parade, complete with drums and feathered dancing-girls could appear beside the court during the Wimbledon final and he wouldn't even blink.

The weather improved, and training moved to the outdoor courts. Tezuka won a couple of minor tournaments. The French boy reappeared, still insolent, and Tezuka saw him off in three short sets. He got his form back.

When a short figure in a baseball-cap appeared in the stands one afternoon during training, Tezuka was pleased with his control. His eyes flickered, and his concentration wavered for a split second, but he wrested it back immediately and sent his shots thundering back at Inui with even more precision and power than usual. Nothing was going to get in his way.

When the behatted figure appeared in a different place in the stands every day for a week Tezuka succumbed to a rush of irritation. It had better not be him, he thought. Then one day, after a week of musical chairs, the figure appeared right at the front, and Tezuka knew. He despised players who threw their rackets, but at this moment he understood the impulse.

He walked directly over to where Ryoma was sitting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Inui watching, one finger sandwiched in his notebook, waiting for Tezuka to get rid of this idiotic fan. Tezuka stopped in front of Ryoma. Ryoma looked frankly up at him.

'Hello,' he said, outrageously.

'Did you call those numbers I sent you?' Tezuka did not hide his impatience.

Ryoma smirked.

'Yeah, I did,' he said. 'They weren't as good as you.'

This child was never going to take no for an answer. Just one more game, he had said. All right. Tezuka clenched his teeth and went to fetch a spare racket. He handed it to Ryoma.

'Get on the court,' he said. Briefly, he heard an echo of his own mother's voice ordering him into the bath, and then, thankfully, it was gone. Ryoma didn't hesitate: he took the racket and hopped over the barrier.

One more game. Let them get it out of their systems, then Ryoma could find a proper coach, and Tezuka could get back to conquering the universe, and each could forget the other existed. He looked over at Inui, whose notebook was now completely shut in his lap. Tezuka went over to him.

'This won't take long. He's on the junior circuit and he's been asking for a match for a while.'

'I don't recognise him. But I suppose you know what you're doing.'

When Tezuka turned back to the court to see Ryoma waiting at the net, he experienced a tight feeling high in his chest which he recognised with despair as anticipation. He walked over and allowed himself, just this once, to be greedy.

'Best of three sets. Heads or tails?'

There was no way it would go to three sets – Ryoma would have to take a set for that – but a flash of delight passed across his face nevertheless.

And Tezuka ached suddenly to kiss him, just to catch him briefly over the net, hold it for a beat or two to say _play well_ before heading for the baseline.

He pushed the thought away, gripped his racket and flipped the coin. He won the toss.

This time he didn't have to learn Ryoma's game: he knew it, and it was as good as he remembered. If anything, it was better. He had been so impressed by Ryoma's serve and his form, that he'd forgotten about his reaction time and ability to read his opponent. Of course, Ryoma knew Tezuka's tennis because he had watched him play dozens of times: Tezuka's tennis was a public commodity. Tezuka wondered fleetingly how Ryoma would play against someone else, against Atobe, against Fuji. Was Atobe the ghost in Ryoma's style?

Ryoma took more points than before, and a couple more of his service games, though Tezuka held him away from the break points. They changed ends and Tezuka's gaze flicked involuntarily to Inui, and was unsurprised to see the notebook open and Inui writing furiously inside it. His heart sank.

Then Ryoma took the second set and Tezuka was suddenly unsure that getting it all out of their systems was ever going to be possible.

The match changed. Tezuka did not quite play at full power, but he let himself off the leash, and Ryoma seemed to revel in his strength. For the first time Tezuka felt his strength being used by an opponent to pull himself higher. He braced himself, as if Ryoma was a climbing companion rather than a competitor.

When they had finished Inui didn't waste any time. He strode over to them as they were shaking hands.

'Who's your coach?' he demanded, the sunlight glaring off his glasses.

Ryoma spoke one of the names that Tezuka had sent him via Atobe.

'Really? I hadn't heard he'd taken on anyone new,' Inui said as he made a quick note.

'I've just started.'

Inui pressed on.

'And before that?'

He was bending forward slightly, looking intently into Ryoma's face and Tezuka realised how intimidating he must be to someone who didn't know him. Ryoma held his gaze unwaveringly.

'I've had a break, but my dad used to coach me.' A moment after he had spoken, Ryoma seemed to back away slightly from both of them. 'Er, you wouldn't know him,' he added quickly, as if calming a couple of hungry predators.

Inui scribbled in his notebook then tore out the page and handed it to Ryoma.

'Here is someone I think would suit you better,' he said.

Ryoma looked at the piece of paper.

'Tachibana-sensei. Who's he?'

'She,' Inui corrected him.

Ryoma looked startled.

'She's good,' Inui said. 'She came up through the public schools. She's tough but fair, and she's about technique rather than power. That's what you'll need. '

And she coached at the same club. Tezuka would probably be seeing Ryoma several times a week.

  
 _~end of part two~_

  



	3. Chapter 3

Most days, Tezuka managed to avoid seeing Ryoma by arriving at the club earlier and leaving later than Tachibana and her new student. It had been going well for two weeks until one afternoon when Fuji arrived during a break in practice and took his arm companionably. Before Tezuka could stop him, he realised he was being steered in the direction of Ryoma's court.

'So, what made you change your mind?' Fuji said.

'About what?'

'I thought Ryoma didn't interest you.'

Tezuka could hear Tachibana's voice issuing sharp instructions and Ryoma seemed to be running all over his half of the court.

'Inui saw him play. Why are you here, Fuji?'

'I haven't seen An-chan since school. I wanted to say hello.'

They arrived and stopped at the fence, watching teacher and pupil work.

'Forehand! Backhand!' Tachibana barked. 'Backhand! Forehand! Back! Fore! Fore!'

She had the ball machine going on its highest setting, firing balls out randomly across the court, and Ryoma had to switch hands according to where the ball was coming from, as well as covering a large area. Ryoma's face was glistening with sweat. Tezuka couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him.

'You're not here for Atobe then?' Tezuka asked.

'Ah, perhaps a little of that too.'

Tezuka glanced at Fuji who kept his eyes on the court. 'Ryoma has to eat after all. Look at how much energy he is expending.'

Tezuka felt a thud of worry and looked sharply at Fuji.

'He's still working for Atobe?'

'Oh, no,' said Fuji

'Then how...?'

'Atobe is still paying him.'

The balls had stopped, the machine was winding down and Tachibana and Ryoma were coming towards them, Ryoma breathing hard. Fuji squinted, watching them, then moved forward to greet Ryoma warmly.

'Ryoma-kun. How are you?'

'Hey Syuusuke,' he said. Tezuka repressed a burst of jealousy at Ryoma's use of Fuji's given name and reminded himself that it was just a hangover from their professional relationship. 'I'm good. This is my slave-driver, I mean coach, Tachibana-sensei.'

'It's for your own good, shorty,' she said flicking at his cap, then turned to Fuji. They bowed deeply to each other.

'Delighted to meet the famous tensai again,' Tachibana said.

'Likewise, the famous cheerleader,' Fuji returned. Tachibana thumped him on the arm.

'Oh, you guys know each other?' said Ryoma, resettling his cap.

'The last time I saw An-chan she was in a short skirt shaking pom-poms for Fudomine and growling at anyone who came near her brother.'

Ryoma looked like he'd just been given blackmail material.

'Wow. I think I'd pay money to see that,' he said.

'I might have pictures somewhere.'

Tachibana stepped in.

'Hey, you're undermining my authority, Fujiko-chan,' she said.

Fuji laughed, but his cheeks flushed. Tezuka was taken aback when Ryoma turned to him suddenly.

'Tezuka-sensei,' he said brightly, 'Didn't your guy say Tachibana was all about technique not power? Do you think I should sue?'

Ryoma was peering up at him from under his cap, the corners of his eyes creasing and Tachibana was looking at him as if he'd done something slightly disreputable. He was waiting for a response.

'I'm sure Tachibana-sensei has your best interests at heart,' Tezuka managed.

'Oh, Tezuka,' laughed Fuji. 'You old stick.'

'He's right. I do,' said Tachibana. 'The Kyoto Futures tournament is next month.'

'Kyoto Futures?' Fuji said sharply.

Tezuka had heard this was Tachibana's plan.

'I can't make him grow six inches in a month,' she said, 'but I can make him last through a week of solid tennis.'

'Che,' said Ryoma. But he looked pleased under the brim of his cap. 'Anyway, Fuji-san, what are you doing here?'

'I've come to take my old colleague to dinner.'

'To check up on me, you mean.'

Fuji was unfazed.

'Yes, that too.'

'Come on, I'll show you around.'

Tachibana and Tezuka watched them go.

'You have been busy, Tezuka-san,' Tachibana said as they disappeared from view. 'We haven't seen you.'

Tezuka wondered if she was reproaching him.

'Ryoma has improved,' he said. 'You have done a good job, Tachibana-san.'

'I have a lot to work with.'

Tezuka nodded. 'I wish you all the best in Kyoto,' he said and moved away, but Tachibana caught his elbow.

'Tezuka-san. Can I ask you a question?'

He had always hated that question.

'Of course,' he said.

'Where does Ryoma come from?'

He felt a throb of unease.

'I know very little about him,' he hedged. 'I've just played him a couple of times.'

'Oh, I thought you might know something about his father.'

Tezuka felt as though a fast-moving object had just missed him by inches.

'Only that he used to be his coach,' he said, trying not to sound relieved. 'Why?'

'His coach?' she murmured, half to herself. 'Of course.'

Now Tezuka was curious. After Ryoma's throwaway remark about his father that day with Inui, he had wondered every so often about his identity.

'Tachibana, what is it?'

'I don't know. Maybe I'm going nuts.'

'Why is this such a cause for concern? Surely only Ryoma's tennis matters.'

'Yeah, it should.' Tachibana looked away across the courts and after a moment began to speak. 'I was poking around online, looking at the Tennis Monthly archives for something else, and stumbled across some pictures of…' Here, she hesitated. 'This one player,' she went on. 'So I looked for more pictures just to make sure, and the more I saw the more it began to fall into place.' She took a breath and turned to Tezuka. 'Tezuka-san. I think Ryoma is Echizen Nanjirou's son.'

Tezuka's heart folded over.

He flicked through his memories of Ryoma -- his features and gestures, how he moved, his playing-style -- and it took him only a matter of seconds to to know that she was right.

'Have you talked to Ryoma?'

'No. This is something he's hiding and I think he'll flip out if I confront him. The thing is, if the press get hold of this -- and they will - if I've seen it, then others will too -- he'll flip out at them. I have to head this off before Kyoto.'

And Tezuka understood why she was confiding in him.

'Perhaps Fuji can speak to him.'

Something tight in her expression relaxed.

'You read my mind,' she said, almost smiling.

'I will call him tonight.'

~

  
'Ah,' Fuji said sadly over the phone. 'I told him he wouldn't be able to keep it secret forever.'

'Why did he want to?'

'And be overshadowed by his father for the rest of his career?'

'But he's good enough for that not to happen.'

'It's hard for him to see beyond his father at the moment.'

'Are they in contact?'

'No.'

They were both silent for a moment.

'I will speak to him,' Fuji said eventually. 'And Tachibana too, but I won't mention that you know. He wouldn't like it.'

Tezuka was about to ask why, but then told himself it was none of his business. Ryoma's career was not his concern.

'Whatever you think best,' he said.

He hung up and looked back at his computer screen, scrolling through the articles Tachibana had emailed him. He watched Echizen Nanjirou dance across the pages in picture after picture, ponytail flying, racket whipping. Even though the shots were static, uninteresting as photographs, the man's charisma burned through the screen.

Tezuka had always tried to disapprove of the 'Samurai'. That idiotic nickname for a start. And his play was just that – play. The man never seemed to take the game seriously. Tezuka's father had loved him, of course, delighted by all those novelty shots. Tezuka had been a child when the Samurai retired, and he remembered his matches only vaguely, but even at the age of six he had been unimpressed by the man's tomfoolery. But then later, after he had been playing himself for a few years, he had seen recordings of the Samurai's most famous matches, the Grand Slam winners, the five-set marathons, and realised that all the horseplay had been the result of simple boredom, and that when Samurai Echizen was challenged, when his back was against the wall, he was a player of fierce focus and power. Tezuka had found himself reluctantly acknowledging a master.

And the likeness was unmistakable. He wondered how he had missed it. The hair was longer in the photographs, the smile wider, the attitude bigger, but there was almost no doubt: this was where Ryoma came from. This was where his talent came from, this was his potential, and Ryoma had come so close to squandering it, it made Tezuka want to lie down quietly in the dark somewhere until the horror passed.

He had found his ghost, but instead of feeling satisfied, he only had a new set of questions.

  


~

  
He went to Italy for a four-day tournament and thought that would help clear his mind, but the universe seemed to be conspiring against him. The local sports channel was showing a documentary series on past stars of the men's game and every evening, Laver or McEnroe or Sampras was profiled, with footage from their greatest games and glowing interviews with their contemporaries. He knew these stories by heart and didn't need to hear them again in out-of-sync Italian. He usually turned to the news channel after a few minutes. But he knew there was a particular name that belonged on that list, and one evening, as he had known would happen, he switched on to see that ponytail flipping across the screen, and the Samurai in all his dazzling, maddening glory, smirking and joking and winning. It was like watching Ryoma play, but in reverse: this time it was the son who was the shadow, the ghost. Tezuka sat on the edge of his hotel bed with the remote in his hand, waiting for the moment when he flipped channels. But every time Nanjirou smirked, he saw Ryoma's wry smile, every time he boasted, he heard Ryoma's soft 'che' and every time he served he saw Ryoma's power. He watched to the end.

He gave one or two interviews, and ran the gauntlet of paparazzi that seemed to crawl over Europe like roaches, omnipresent and indestructible. He never understood why they still came after him. He thought he had succeeded in making himself as boring as possible.

'You are handsome, and you are polite, Tezuka-kun,' Fuji told him laughingly over the phone. 'They want to see you crack.'

He won the tournament, beating the French boy again, who seemed to have dropped the affectation of the baseball cap.

He arrived home to find an email from Tachibana.

 _Tezuka-sensei,_

Well, he didn't flip, but he was pretty pissed off. Things are settling down now, and he's doing well. He's agreed to 'come out' after Kyoto - he wants to do well there first anonymously.

The thing is, with Kyoto coming up, he needs some time with a pro, to really test him. Would you hit with him? I know you have an intense schedule, but just a few hours over the next couple of weeks would help. Let me know what you think.

Thanks,  
An.

Oh, and congrats on the win - that kid deserved everything you gave him.

Of course he wanted to and because of this, his instinct was to say no. But he sent a brief reply agreeing to Tachibana's request. Not to do so would have raised too many questions, and he knew it was a good idea. Ryoma had been playing against other juniors at the club, but he needed experience with someone several levels above him if he was to play well in even a low-level pro tournament.

On the morning of their first match he wasn't surprised to find Ryoma already warming up on the indoor circuit. Tezuka stood at the observation window for a little while, watching him and thinking about Nanjirou, until Ryoma began to slow, then came to a stop. He towelled his hair roughly and was getting his breath back when he looked up and spotted Tezuka. He raised a hand in greeting, and Tezuka took the stairs down to the circuit to meet him.

'Hey,' said Ryoma, emerging from his towel.

'Good morning,' said Tezuka, trying to look anywhere but at Ryoma's ruffled hair and exercise-flushed cheeks. 'We will be using the outdoor courts.'

'Cool,' said Ryoma. They walked towards the exit.

Tezuka hadn't coached anyone since school, but it came back easily to him. They stretched together and Tezuka corrected Ryoma - touching him briefly on his back where it could be straighter, or on his arm where better angled. He did these things unconsciously, only registering how close he was to Ryoma - that he was touching him - when he found himself once or twice looking directly into Ryoma's eyes. The expression in them was open, assessing.

When they played he was able to issue verbal instruction in a way he felt hadn't been appropriate before and he could see the difference it made to Ryoma's play. He was also aware that Ryoma may have become used to beating the other juniors easily, so he made sure that Ryoma felt his strength. He knew too that when he and Ryoma had shaken hands at the end of the match his increased heart-rate was not solely the result of physical exertion. He did his best to pay no attention to these things. Later, when finishing his own practice for the day, Inui commented on his rise in energy - he had played for an hour longer than usual.

In the practice sessions that followed, there were other things Tezuka had to ignore. Now he knew Ryoma's history, he could see where Ryoma's play ended and his father's began.

 _Echizen._

The name echoed around his head and his knowledge began to itch at Tezuka like sand under his clothes until it became almost unbearable. Ryoma would never fully realise his talent if this ghost was not exorcised, and Tezuka could not help him if there was this secret between them. He would have to talk to Tachibana or Fuji. But before he could do anything sensible, Tezuka's knowledge spilled out despite himself.

It was their final practice before Kyoto and because of Tezuka's schedule, they were playing late in the afternoon. There was a strange mismatch in their moods: Ryoma was playful, Tezuka merciless. Ryoma returned an awkwardly placed shot through his legs and it went wide. The move was pure Samurai and Tezuka forgot himself.

'Echizen!' he barked.

Tezuka had never seen a smile vanish so fast, darkening to equal parts dismay and thunder. Ryoma turned and walked off the court. Tezuka strode after him.

'The match is not finished,' he said, steel in his voice. 'Return to the court immediately.'

'Who told you?' Ryoma unzipped his bag, preparing to pack.

'How long did you think it would stay a secret?'

'Fuji,' Ryoma said, ignoring Tezuka's question. 'I thought I could trust him.'

Without thinking Tezuka caught Ryoma's arm and tugged him round to face him.

'Fuji is absolutely trustworthy,' Tezuka said. 'Never doubt it.'

Ryoma wrenched his arm away, but remained squarely in front of Tezuka. Tezuka's eye caught helplessly on the frantic pulse at the base of Ryoma's throat.

'How do you know, then?' Ryoma demanded.

'It doesn't matter. You must stop hiding this.'

'Why is it any of your business?'

Tezuka paused, knowing what he was about to say could provoke Ryoma even more.

'Because it has an impact on your play. You are just like him, Ryoma.'

'I'm nothing like him!' Ryoma's voice skidded upwards out of his control. He turned to start packing away his gear.

'It was not Fuji who told me,' he said gently to Ryoma's back. 'It was Tachibana.'

Ryoma showed no sign of having heard him.

'Do you know how she found out?' Tezuka went on. Ryoma's furious packing slowed a little. 'It was because she recognized your game. She saw where it came from.'

Ryoma's shoulders sagged a little.

'I'm not like him,' he said tiredly. He was holding a racket loosely by his side. Tezuka pressed on.

'It shouldn't matter, but he is your father. He casts a heavy shadow. You have to step out from under it. But if you carry on hiding, you will never escape it.'

Ryoma turned and sat on the bench, picking at his racket-strings, still not looking at Tezuka. Finally he spoke.

'I was going to tell you,' he said.

'Oh?'

Ryoma looked up Tezuka, squinting a little into the late, low sun.

'But he's an asshole and I didn't want you to think I was an asshole too,' he said.

Tezuka pressed his mouth firmly into a line.

'I don't think you're an asshole,' he responded. 'For the record, I don't think your father is an asshole either, but then I suppose, he's not my father.'

Ryoma looked momentarily shocked, then his mouth spread into a slow grin.

'Tezuka-sensei' he said quietly, 'you have a dirty mouth.'

'No dirtier than yours,' Tezuka returned, unable to stop himself catching Ryoma's eye. They held each other's gaze for a beat too long, Ryoma still grinning and Tezuka knew that they had crossed a line. Ryoma said suddenly, 'Have dinner with me.'

Tezuka sighed inwardly. He had only brought this on himself. He told himself it would be a good opportunity to talk further to Ryoma about his father.

~

  
'… everyone thought the point was over and they were cheering for Roddick, but you returned it. Man, it was like, I don't know, like you teleported to the other side of the court.' Ryoma shook his head. 'The look on his face.'

Tezuka put down his sake-cup and thought about saying something modest and sensible.

'I did teleport, of course,' he intoned solemnly.

'I thought that was against ATP regulations,' Ryoma flipped back.

'Inui has found a loophole.'

They were sitting at a corner table in the restaurant rather than at the bar. The sushi was indifferent, but the sake was excellent. The waiter appeared, asking if they had everything they wanted. They were fine, thank-you. When Tezuka turned back from the waiter, Ryoma's gaze skittered away immediately.

'Echizen,' Tezuka said quietly.

As Tezuka had known it would, this had Ryoma's attention snapping back to him.

'Don't call me that.'

'It is your name.'

'It doesn't have to be.'

'You think people won't find out?'

Ryoma frowned.

'I don't want them to think I just coasted in on my name.'

'You don't win matches with a name.'

'But you win them with training and sponsorship, which you can get from a name.'

'If you couldn't play, it wouldn't matter who your father was.'

They were silent for a moment. Tezuka laid his chop-sticks neatly across his plate and was picking up his napkin, when Ryoma spoke again.

'I will use my real name. Eventually. Just give me time.'

Tezuka pressed the napkin to his lips and nodded briefly. He picked up his cup of sake, holding it in the palm of his hand. It was nearly cold now. He tried to think of a way of not asking this question. He failed.

'Why did you give up?' he said.

Ryoma didn't answer for a long time and Tezuka was about to apologise and withdraw his question when he spoke.

'I didn't want to be… his tennis-toy anymore. He had me all lined up for this top tennis-school, and... I just wanted to know if I could do other things besides play tennis.'

'Ah.'

'Like school-work, like maybe a different game or sport. Anything.'

'And could you?'

'Well, I joined the shogi club.'

This made Tezuka look up. Ryoma was wry.

'Yeah. I know. I was pretty terrible. But it pissed my dad off, so I was happy. He said shogi was for old men and nerds.'

'That is a somewhat… unkind description. Though shogi does sound a long way from Atobe's.'

'Yeah, well, it turned out my Dad was wrong. Some of the shogi guys were pretty wild. They hung around bars in Shinjuku and I tagged along. I started realising I was into guys around that time and the bars were just around the corner from Ni-chome, so…' Ryoma trailed off, letting Tezuka work the rest out for himself before he went on. 'That really pissed my Dad off. Then I met Atobe. Before he was, uh, famous. When his family…' Ryoma broke off.

'I knew they had… fallen on hard times.'

'Yeah, well. Atobe was pretty enterprising.'

'I can imagine. Did you know he had played when he was younger?'

'I found out. I nearly left because of it.'

'Oh?'

'It was tennis,' Ryoma explained. 'I was still trying to get away from all that stuff.'

Tezuka refrained from pointing out that the bars of Ni-chome were not much of an escape.

'Did you and he…?'

Ryoma blushed and Tezuka realised what an inappropriate question it was.

'I'm sorry, it's none of my business. I shouldn't…'

'No. It's OK,' said Ryoma trying to sound offhand. 'Yeah. We. I mean. We played together. He sort of coached me for a while.' Ryoma looked uncomfortable. Tezuka was taken aback.

'Oh no, I meant…'

Ryoma twigged. 'Oh. You meant did I have _sex_ with him?' His discomfort vanished. 'Well, yeah, of course I did.'

Then it was Ryoma's turn to notice Tezuka's discomfort.

'So,' he said lightly. 'Who coached you?'

'I went to one of those top tennis-schools. That's where I met Inui. I also had a good captain for a while. My family is not interested in tennis. But they supported me eventually.'

'Sounds cool. No pressure.'

'I would have preferred a little more.'

'Seems like you did okay without it.'

Tezuka nodded acknowledgement.

'My grandfather was something of an inspiration. He helped. But it was difficult for a while. I had a place to study law at Tokyo University. My father was so happy. And then I turned it down.'

'To go pro.'

'Yes. He was livid.'

'I bet. So tennis was like your rebellion.'

'My wild tennis years.'

They looked wryly at each other, and then Ryoma looked down and Tezuka thought of Ryoma's rebellion  
and remembered that it had involved more than jut shogi. He remembered how they had met. He remembered that kiss in the hallway.

He could not pursue this. He struggled to think of something normal to talk about. Anything would do.

'That school your father wanted you to go to…' he said.

Something akin to pain flickered across Ryoma's face before he answered.

'Seishun Gakuen,' he said, avoiding Tezuka's gaze.

Tezuka's first thought was this was some sort of odd, twisted joke on Ryoma's part, but one look at his face told him it wasn't.

'That was…' Tezuka started.

'…where you went. I know,' Ryoma said. And then he added, 'We would have been there at the same time.'

Tezuka took a long swallow of sake. It burned his throat without taste.

He had been oblivious at Seigaku, satisfied but never happy, always reining in that feeling of something missing, a player to make him feel like the captain he knew he was supposed to be, like Yamato had been to him. He had thought Fuji would be that one for a while, but Fuji had been strange and uncatchable.

'You would have been my captain,' said Ryoma softly.

Tezuka found that could not speak for a little while.

'That kind of regret is fruitless,' he said at last. 'We must look forward.' He composed his features and looked Ryoma steadily in the eye.

Ryoma returned his gaze unwaveringly, his expression unreadable, for a long time. Then he nodded, and said something about looking forward to Kyoto. They talked about Kyoto after that, and Madrid, Tezuka's next tournament. Tezuka didn't remember the details. It was dull; it was safe. They split the bill carefully between them, and the waiter fetched their jackets.

After that, all other things being equal, they might have politely shaken hands outside the restaurant and Tezuka would have gone home and packed for his tournament, for which he was leaving the next day. He would have called Inui to make final travel arrangements. He might have masturbated functionally in the bathroom, thinking only of anonymous limbs and orifices and animal moans. He would have gone to bed and dreamt of nothing.

But none of this happened because when they emerged from the restaurant, Tezuka was blind-sided by a flash and a shouted question he didn't quite catch. He put his hand up reflexively to shield himself from any more flashes, but turned towards the reporter to ask him to repeat his question, fleetingly wondering why on earth the man had tracked them down. He found dealing with journalists a little like dealing with an angry bull: facing them down instead of running away was usually the best method.

'I said, what are your hopes for Madrid, Tezuka-san?' the reporter replied. 'Will you beat Nadal this time?'

'I am training hard and hope to win as many matches as I can,' Tezuka responded, arranging his features into what he imagined was a smile. The flash went off again, obscuring the face of his interrogator. 'Thank you for your support,' he finished and turned away. This was usually enough. He started to walk towards his car, and realised Ryoma was still there, falling into step with him. He felt a sudden impulse to tell him to leave, it wasn't safe.

As if to confirm his worry, another question came at him from behind.

'Clay's not your best surface is it?'

The reporter was beginning to provoke. It was all right. Tezuka had dealt with worse. He said 'I have nothing further to add,' over his shoulder, and carried on towards his car. He sensed Ryoma beside him and was aware of passers-by looking at them curiously. Then the reporter was right by him, his voice intimate. Tezuka's nape bristled with tension.

'You share a club with Echizen-san, don't you?'

Tachibana's fears had obviously materialised. Tezuka must have reacted in some way because he felt Ryoma's hand on his arm.

'It's OK,' he heard.

'Are you mentoring him?' the reporter went on ingratiatingly.

They were nearing his car, and he began to reach for his keys to flip the alarm and unlock the doors. The reporter had moved, he was on Ryoma's side now.

'Hey, Echizen, did your Dad wangle you the entry to Kyoto?' His tone was rich with innuendo. Tezuka's heart began to beat like a slaver's drum. The reporter went on. 'Or is it because you sucked enough official cocks at Atobe Keigo's private parties?'

Tezuka felt a switch thrown in his brain. He felt both very far away and very present. It took him a moment to realise that he was now walking towards the reporter instead of his car. He heard Ryoma say 'Tezuka, don't,' and felt a hand on his arm, stronger than before. He shook it off easily. He could see the reporter clearly now. He saw delight and a strange hunger flash across the man's face as he raised his camera and started taking pictures of Tezuka advancing on him. He thought he heard Ryoma's voice again. The man was bigger than him. Tezuka had no idea what he was going to do until he reached out, twisted the camera firmly out of the reporter's hand and pitched it to the ground.

Tezuka saw the camera break in slow motion. It was fragile yet heavy, and its weight was its own destruction: the flash flew off at a spastic angle, the monstrous lens broke away, and the whole thing smashed into irregular pieces with a deeply satisfying crunch.

Tezuka looked up.

The man's delight at drawing a reaction out of 'the Machine' had vanished, replaced by blind fury.

'You crazy fuck!' he screamed into Tezuka's face.

Tezuka turned away from the reporter despite knowing that the man could easily attack him from behind, and saw Ryoma waving down a cab. The cab was stopping and Ryoma was opening the door. He turned and came towards Tezuka, as grim as Tezuka had ever seen him.

'Come on,' he said. 'Get in.'

'My car,' said Tezuka automatically.

'Fuck your car. Fuji can collect it for you. Get in,' he said again, his eyes flicking over Tezuka's shoulder. The reporter must have been bearing down on them. Tezuka ducked inside the cab, expecting Ryoma to follow, but Ryoma moved towards the reporter. Tezuka heard Ryoma's voice, too low for him to catch the words, then Ryoma was inside, pulling down the jump-seat to sit across from him, slamming the door shut.

'Where to, guys?' the cab driver called over his shoulder, already pulling out into the traffic. Ryoma gave him two addresses and the cab took off.

Tezuka's heart was beating wildly, he was breathing as if he had just played a demanding rally and when he placed his hands carefully on his thighs he saw that they were trembling.

'Holy shit,' Ryoma breathed. He leaned forward, laying a hand on Tezuka's knee. His eyes were wide, and colour was high in his cheeks. 'Are you okay?' he asked.

Tezuka knew that Ryoma meant nothing by that touch, that it was an unconscious gesture of concern, but it was warm and steady and suddenly, intensely arousing. Tezuka nodded briefly. He was trying to control his heart-rate by breathing through his nose. He knew he must look worrying. When he spoke again, he tried to sound as normal as possible.

'I'm fine.' And then, 'The reporter…'

'I told him that if his editor printed anything, Atobe would personally make sure no paper in Japan would touch anything from him ever again.'

'Ah,' was all Tezuka could manage. He was still breathing hard, dead adrenalin surging acidically through his veins. He thought about the outrageous thing he had just done, the trouble it could cause for Ryoma, despite what he had threatened the reporter with.

'I'm sorry,' he said impulsively.

'Don't be,' Ryoma whispered, and moved his hand from Tezuka's knee to his face, and Tezuka braced himself, both dreading and wanting the touch, but Ryoma drew back, fingers curling, a line between his brows.

Then, as if some string had broken, he dropped forward and kissed Tezuka.

The moment was suspended, their mouths misaligned. Tezuka felt the cool softness of Ryoma's mouth against his upper lip, squashing it awkwardly against his teeth. His head was pressed against the headrest. Then Ryoma pulled back. He looked raw. Tezuka felt an iron fist close around his heart and they both moved forward at the same time.

They kissed messily, deeply, Ryoma's tongue something alive, penetrating him, and Tezuka felt his jaw click open to receive him, letting Ryoma feed on him. He felt Ryoma's hand against the side of his neck, his thumb lying across the base of Tezuka's throat, pressing a little, making him harder. His erection was trapped in the awkward angle forced by leaning forward in the cab-seat. He didn't care.

They separated eventually, a line of spittle connecting them briefly before Ryoma wiped his mouth with the heel of his palm, letting out a shaky breath, staring at Tezuka. His lips were red, wet, obscene.

'Uh, guys?'

They drew apart at the sound of the driver's voice. They had arrived somewhere.

'First stop,' the driver said. Tezuka saw his eyes flicking away from them in the rearview.

'Uh,' Ryoma said, his voice coming out cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. 'This is me,' he said, looking out of the window.

They were at Ryoma's apartment. Ryoma was going to get out of the car, go into the apartment building and shut the door, then the taxi would go on to Tezuka's address -- with the driver stealing curious glances in the rearview all the way and probably making some sly remark as Tezuka was paying him -- and Tezuka would go up to his own apartment and shut the door too.

Ryoma's hand was resting on the door-handle, but he had made no move to get out of the car. He wasn't looking at Tezuka. At last he said quietly, 'Come in with me.'

If Tezuka refused, it would be a lie.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head, half-bowing, half-nodding.

They paid and just as they were getting out the driver caught Tezuka's attention.

'Hey mister,' he said. Tezuka turned to see him smirking into the rearview. He waited with finite patience for the obnoxious comment he knew was coming. 'What you did back there,' the driver said finally, grinning and displaying a gold tooth. 'It was great. Those newspaper guys are scum.' Tezuka bowed as best he could, given he was half-in half-out of the car, and murmured his thanks.

Ryoma's apartment was one of those compact city places with clever storage and a futon. There was a tiny kitchen and bathroom either side of the entryway, and outside the narrow floor-to-ceiling window in the living area was a balcony Tezuka suspected was a glorified ledge of concrete. The whole place, small as it was, was unexpectedly neat. Tezuka had envisioned an explosion of tennis-gear and underwear. The futon was unfolded, but made, as if Ryoma didn't do much more than sleep here. Ryoma was standing there by the head, having just turned on the bedside lamp, looking at Tezuka. There was nowhere else for them to go. Tezuka knew that there would be no polite offers of tea, no sitting awkwardly and pretending to want to talk. Tezuka let his bag drop where he stood and Ryoma came to him.

They kissed hungrily, their hands skimming over their clothes, finding openings, places untucked, pulling, tugging, undressing each other as they fell onto the bed, ankles caught in a tangle of trousers and underwear that they scraped off with their feet. Then Tezuka felt the length of Ryoma's naked body against his, erection pressing into his hip, felt Ryoma move in his arms, his knees, chest, prick briefly touching his own, sending darts of pleasure under Tezuka's skin, and for the first time since he had seen Ryoma slumped arrogantly on the sofa at Atobe's, Tezuka admitted his desire, let it flood his brain, muffle his thoughts, sharpen his senses. He rolled them over so Ryoma was under him and they both sighed as their body weight pushed their pricks together. Tezuka felt Ryoma's hands grasping at his arse and their legs scissored together and all of a sudden his prick was caught in the wrong place, plunging into the tight channel underneath Ryoma's balls, into the the cleft of his arse, and Ryoma gasped and all of a sudden Tezuka wanted - wanted terribly - to fuck him, but knew it would be too much too soon.

And then a voice cut venomously through the fog of lust in his brain and said _he's a rent-boy, he's had more cocks than you've served aces, of course you can fuck him on a first date_ , and Tezuka froze.

Ryoma's eyes flew open and Tezuka saw concern in them that he couldn't accept. He closed his own eyes and rested on his elbows.

'Hey,' he heard Ryoma say eventually. 'Hey,' he said again, his voice unbearably tender.

Tezuka felt a touch on his cheek and opened his eyes. Ryoma was looking curiously up at him.

'Are we… is this too fast?'

Tezuka dropped his head and let out a short bar of soft, ironic laughter.

'No,' he said. 'I just…'

And suddenly he was on his back and Ryoma was looking down at him, one eyebrow raised.

'No. I can feel that,' Ryoma said in a low voice, and carefully ground their cocks together, two flints making sparks. Tezuka pulled Ryoma down then, and lost himself, trying to forget that there was any other way of reading this situation than two people caught in a monsoon of hormones. As they kissed clumsily and thrust against each other, Tezuka thought _it will be all right as long as I don't come_ in a strangely detached way. Then Ryoma slid awkwardly into the tight corner between Tezuka's prick and his stomach and made two quick, involuntary thrusts, gasped and shut his eyes and stopped. Tezuka pressed his hands into the small of Ryoma's back, pulling Ryoma tightly against him and Ryoma looked at him, a question in the tilt of his head.

'Go on,' Tezuka answered softly.

So he watched as Ryoma brought himself off against him, feeling the slow, rough thrust of Ryoma's prick against his stomach, holding back from taking any but the most vicarious pleasure. As Ryoma found his rhythm, his mouth fell open and his gaze became trance-like and Tezuka held him, lifting his hips now and then to give more friction. Gradually, colour rose in Ryoma's face and sweat began to shine at his temples, dampening his hair that fell into his eyes, his soft cries becoming longer and louder and Tezuka knew he was close, his biceps taut from supporting himself. His eyes were squeezed shut and a drop of sweat rode slowly over his collarbone and when he came, he whispered _oh, oh, oh,_ in time to the pulses of his orgasm.

Tezuka released his hold gradually and Ryoma lowered himself to his elbows, panting, laughing a little through his breaths.

'Wow,' he said. 'Shit. Sorry.' He pressed his forehead to Tezuka's shoulder. 'I'm not usually such a lousy lay.'

 _You are beautiful,_ Tezuka wanted to say.

Later, after Ryoma cleaned them both up, he moved down, and Tezuka shifted uncomfortably, murmuring, 'You don't have to.' But Ryoma said 'Let me,' and Tezuka felt a powerful hand against his hip, stilling his movement, a gesture that was blindingly familiar all of a sudden, but then the memory was gone inside the heat of Ryoma's mouth, closing around him, trapping him in sucking heat. Tezuka arched up and opened his mouth but made no sound, felt Ryoma's hair tickling his palms. Then they were moving together, Ryoma holding him in place and sucking him as Tezuka pushed up inside his mouth. Tezuka's resolution not to come was a distant memory, a threadbare idea. He could feel one of Ryoma's hands splayed against his ribs and the other holding his hip, fingertips digging slightly into the tender flesh of his buttock. Ryoma was taking him towards his orgasm which he could feel gathering, spinning him in, and he was cradling Ryoma's head, hearing Ryoma's soft whimpers of pleasure, taking what he wanted until suddenly he felt his cock drawn deeper into Ryoma's throat, the tip squeezed tight, making him cry out in surprise and almost-pain and then he was coming, pulsing into Ryoma's mouth, warmth pooling around him and then gone, sucked away, and he was jerking slowly, dry, inside Ryoma.

They subsided, Ryoma's hands on his hips, gentling him, suckling him lazily, and then releasing him. He felt Ryoma's cheek against his hip. He threaded Ryoma's hair through his fingers, stroking one strand lightly over and over. They lay like that for a long while, their breath calming.

Tezuka was dozing when he felt Ryoma arrive beside him. They crawled wordlessly into each other's arms and kissed, slow and gentle, pressing their bodies together, their pricks soft, not mattering.

They fell asleep.

~

  
He was near water, he could hear it rippling behind him. The sound was getting gradually louder, the ripple becoming a rush, like rapids over rocks. Then with this sound in his ears, he was shaking someone's hand. They were on a tennis-court, a net between them. It was Atobe. The rushing sound had become the crowd at a tennis-match. The sound began to separate into syllables, then words. The crowd were chanting 'Ech-i-zen! Ech-i-zen!' He looked across at Atobe and realised that he hadn't shaken his hand, but given him something. It glinted gold in his palm. A coin. Atobe smiled, made a shallow bow and moved back. Then there was a movement from one side, and Ryoma walked onto the court. The crowd's cheers became ecstatic. Ryoma stood in front of Tezuka, smiling slightly and then knelt. 'ECH-I-ZEN! ECH-I-ZEN!' screamed the crowd. Ryoma looked up at Tezuka, reached for his belt and said slyly, 'Hi, Dad.'

~

  
Tezuka came awake violently, flung upright, his breath forced out of his lungs, his heart thumping wildly. He breathed deeply, waiting for his heartbeat to find its normal pace. He sat with his arms hanging loosely over his bent knees. Ryoma was still asleep beside him.

He looked around at the room, orange streetlight shining through the blinds over Ryoma's things, a small TV, a games console, a framed print propped against the wall, their clothes tangled at the foot of the futon. Tezuka rested his head on his arms.

After a few moments, he turned his head slightly to look down at Ryoma. He was asleep on his stomach, one arm over the side of the futon, palm resting on the floor, the other trailing towards Tezuka. His face was squashed against the pillow making his breath whistle through his nose. A lock of hair hung over one eye. Tezuka reached out to move it aside, but then drew his hand back. He looked for a moment more and then got up, separated his clothes from Ryoma's and got into them as quietly as he could. His belt-buckle clinked once and he stilled, halfway through stepping into his trousers. Ryoma stirred, making a small noise of complaint as he turned his head and shifted into a different position. He settled, not waking, but not before the sight of his bottom moving sensuously underneath the sheet had almost completely undone Tezuka's resolve. Tezuka finished dressing, picked up his bag and left as stealthily as he could, and for his own good, without looking back.

He found a taxi eventually and sank back into the seat, letting his eyes slide shut. He was terribly tired, though he didn't expect to sleep much when he got home. His bed was best avoided altogether, he thought. Perhaps he'd sleep on the plane later.

That dream.

He hadn't read much Freud but knew symbolism when he saw it. The payment and incest motifs were a little hysterical, but the basic message behind them was clear: he had been in a position of responsibility over Ryoma and he had abused it. Judging from his reaction to the reporter, it was also clear that his temper around Ryoma was not to be trusted. It was quite simple and didn't merit brooding over: Tezuka should remove himself altogether. Ryoma didn't need him now, he would find other hitting partners once he was on the professional circuit, other challengers.

  
Tezuka rested his cheek against the cool of the window and told himself he was doing the right thing.

  
 _~end of part three~_

  



	4. Chapter 4

  
When Tezuka emerged from the baggage-hall, he glimpsed a brown head amongst the crowds, and the familiar cardboard sign. This time it was a bird with a slightly crooked wing. Tezuka couldn't tell if Fuji's pen had slipped, or if the wing was broken. Fuji hugged him in greeting and the sign poked Tezuka's ear. Tezuka closed his eyes and felt a slow heartbeat of relief.

'I'm glad you're back,' Fuji said, squeezing him once before they disengaged. He took one of Tezuka's bags and Tezuka followed him numbly out of the airport terminal.

In the car Tezuka leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He let the sound of the engine thrum through his body: modulating as they slowed for corners, throbbing when they stopped at the lights, smoothing out as they sped up. He let it drown out every other thought in his head until finally they stopped altogether and the sound died away. Tezuka did not move.

'Tezuka?'

Fuji's voice broke the silence. Tezuka gradually opened his eyes, tipping his head towards Fuji. Fuji turned to him, resting his hands on the wheel. His expression was patient but curious.

'You're home,' he said softly.

Tezuka nodded and leaned forward for the bag at his feet. He was reaching for the door-handle when Fuji spoke again.

'Aren't you going to ask about Kyoto?'

A number of different emotions broke heavily through Tezuka's body. He waited for them to dissipate before replying.

'No,' he said. 'No, Fuji. I am not,' and opened the car door. Then Fuji said something that made him freeze.

'Ryoma is a little out of control. Tachibana is finding it tough.'

Tezuka turned back to Fuji. The door alarm chimed discreetly.

'Ryoma is doing badly?' he asked sharply.

'Not exactly. But he'll be asked to leave the tournament if he's not careful.' Fuji delivered this news in an even tone, maintaining his cool gaze. 'You've got some time on your hands now, haven't you?'

Tezuka felt the jibe as an almost physical kick, but somehow he managed to match Fuji's tone.

'I'm sure Tachibana is handling things,' he replied.

'She is. But she has also asked when you were due back.' Tezuka didn't respond. Fuji's voice dropped. 'Why now, Kunimitsu?' he asked. His voice was gentle but the question was like a knife. 'What happened?'

'I just need a few physiotherapy sessions. I'll be fine.'

Fuji sighed and reached for the ignition key.

'Tachibana would appreciate your presence. Think about it.' He fired the engine. 'I'll park this for you. Call me later.'

Tezuka watched Fuji head for the car-park under the building before turning and walking up the steps to the front door. Kaneko gave him a brief glance and a mumbled 'Tezuka-san,' and Tezuka had a sudden urge to join her in her cubicle and watch the sumo for the rest of the afternoon. She would probably only give him a brief questioning glance before moving up to make room for him. It struck him as an agreeably peaceful way to spend his day. He turned regretfully towards the lift and his apartment. A long shower would have to do.

He stood under the hot spray and let the water do its work. He was depressed at how easy it was to fall back into the routine of unwinding his shoulder, holding it and feeling the traitorous muscles moving stiffly under his palm.

The yips had returned in the later stages of the Madrid tournament, in the game that should have seen him through to the quarter-finals. He had walked back into the locker-room holding his shoulder after only ten minutes of play and accompanied by a ballboy carrying his racket-bag. Inui had broken off his conversation with one of the other coaches and dashed towards him. When he had established what had happened, he looked as close to miserable as Tezuka had ever seen him.

Tezuka dried himself briskly and wiped the steam off the mirror. He wondered exactly what Fuji had meant by 'a little out of control'. Without his glasses, the shape in front of him was still blurred and unknowable. He watched himself move his hand instinctively to his shoulder. He pulled it back, making himself stand straight and unmoving.

He knew he was going to Kyoto. He'd get the Shinkansen this afternoon.

~

He travelled with Fuji, who had already arranged a hire car from the station and booked, it seemed, two hotel rooms. Tezuka didn't even bother to ask. They went straight to the tournament grounds and found that Ryoma was due to play in half an hour. Fuji suggested seeking him out in the locker-room but Tezuka wanted to see what 'a little out of control' looked like before meeting him. Walking through the grounds, he could sense the stir of surprise and recognition he caused, but he reached the court with no-one approaching him. He sat at the end of a row towards the back near the exit, and watched the players walk out onto the court.

Ryoma's face was completely obscured by the bill of his cap, his head down as he trudged across to the umpire's chair. He even managed to keep it hidden as he shook the umpire's hand, raising his head only slightly, then hunkering down to unpack his rackets. Tezuka felt a finger of worry stir in his gut.

The match started. For the first few games Ryoma gave no sign of disturbance. But when he challenged a line-call at 40-15 down in the fourth game, the crowd murmured in a way that told Tezuka they knew something he didn't. It was a groan of irritation, of the knowledge of more to come. The line-call was good and Ryoma lost the challenge. The crowd held its breath, but Ryoma just swiped at the air with his racket. The match continued. Tezuka spotted Tachibana in the player's enclosure, sitting with her arms folded, her expression obscured by a pair of metal-rimmed sunglasses.

Ryoma struggled to take the first set, and he used up all his challenges, his manner becoming progressively more belligerent as he made each one. There were a few scattered boos in the crowd, but the man next to him let out at low 'ooh' of delight at every challenge, and at one point when Ryoma was standing with his hands on his hips and arguing with the umpire, he murmured 'here we go'. When Ryoma threw his racket hard enough to dent the frame in the second set and the man whooped, Tezuka left.

He realised now why Fuji hadn't come in with him. Tezuka found him watching the mixed-doubles on one of the smaller courts, sitting very straight with his usual smile playing around his lips. When he saw Tezuka he opened his eyes and his smile vanished.

'How was it?'

'I need to speak to Tachibana.'

Fuji rose wordlessly and Tezuka followed him. They went back to Ryoma's court but this time to the player's entrance. Fuji went up the steps towards Tachibana's seat, expecting Tezuka to follow, but Tezuka stayed where he was. He waited while Fuji said a few brief words to Tachibana and she turned, lowering her sunglasses to see Tezuka. She got up immediately and came towards him, taking the glasses off and settling them on her head.

'Tezuka-sensei,' she said quietly, bowing slightly. 'I'm glad you're here.'

'How long has he been like this?'

'Since just before the tournament started. I thought it was nerves. I thought it would go once he started playing.' She sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. 'All the umpires are fed up with him, and the tournament director has issued a verbal warning. He's winning but he's only hanging onto his play by a thread. The other players think it's gamesmanship, and the crowd can't stand him, or they think he's a joke, an entertainment. I'm afraid he's...' She trailed off.

'Where does he practice?' Tezuka asked.

'Here. In the mornings. I know you can't play at the moment, but maybe you can talk. He won't listen to me.' Her eyes flicked towards Fuji. 'Or anyone.'

As she looked up at him, Tezuka noticed how pale she was, and how the lines around her mouth had deepened.

'I will do my best,' he said quietly.

A cheer went up from the crowd, punctuated by one or two catcalls and boos. Tachibana's mouth tightened. Ryoma had taken the second set.

'Thank you,' she said and turned back to the enclosure. Tezuka and Fuji watched her take her seat before they left. As they walked back through the tournament grounds they found the place almost deserted, most spectators having taken their seats. They had seen everything they needed to.

  


~

  
Tezuka lay back on the hotel bed and closed his eyes.

In any other player, Tezuka would have been disgusted at the lack of self-control Ryoma displayed that afternoon. Instead he felt saddened. He was winning, but all the energy he was wasting on conflict - with the umpire, with the other players, with himself - would eventually drain away from his game. He would start losing. It was no wonder Tachibana was worried.

Of course his own game was hardly much better. Inui had thought the strange blip in Melbourne was behind them, but Tezuka could have told him the minute he handed Tachibana's number to Ryoma, he was undoing all the previous weeks of coaching at a stroke.

His mind drifted, he slept. When he woke it was time for dinner. He splashed cold water on his face, changed his shirt and went downstairs.

He and Fuji ate steaks with knives and forks in the hotel restaurant. They talked inconsequentially until their plates arrived, and then, shaking out his napkin, Fuji said, 'It's very odd. Ryoma's behaviour.'

'Different players react differently to the pressures of the professional game,' Tezuka said neutrally. He didn't know how he was going to have this conversation. Fuji sliced into his meat. It was startlingly red inside.

'He's always seemed to be a disciplined young man.'

'I don't know him well enough to say,' Tezuka deflected, picking up his own cutlery.

'You underestimate yourself, I think,' Fuji said, looking steadily at Tezuka for a moment. 'This is a very sudden change,' he went on. 'It's difficult to believe it's for no reason.'

'You think something caused it,' Tezuka said carefully.

'It's the only thing that makes sense.' Fuji picked up his glass of water. 'But I don't know what, and Tachibana is at her wits' end.' After taking a delicate sip, he placed his glass precisely and carefully back on the table and folded his hands together, apparently forgetting his meal for the moment.

'You spent time with him too, in the run-up to Kyoto.'

Tezuka began to feel his heartbeat, regular in his chest.

'Did anything happen between you?' Fuji continued, his voice neither sly nor provoking, but honestly curious. 'It might not have been major. Just something you said. I thought seeing him here might remind you.'

Tezuka realised he had always half-assumed that Fuji knew or had guessed something about his and Ryoma's relationship. Fuji talked on.

'After all, Ryoma has enormous respect for you and your lightest word has great weight with him. Something you might have said…'

Tezuka had stopped eating and was just holding his knife and fork loosely at either side of his plate as Fuji talked. The piece of meat in his mouth had turned to leather. He couldn't let Fuji continue. He swallowed his mouthful somehow and spoke.

'I slept with him,' he said, cutting Fuji short.

Fuji stilled. And then after a moment, he just said 'I see,' in a tone that implied he really did and Tezuka felt strangely relieved.

'I lost control. It shouldn't have happened,' he said.

Fuji looked sharply at him.

'And how does Ryoma feel?'

'I…'

Tezuka realised he had no idea.

'Ah,' said Fuji, looking down at his plate and smiling wryly. 'Of course.'

The look Fuji directed at him was not unsympathetic.

When he returned to his room he could hear rock music leaking down from his upstairs neighbour. Normally he would simply have gone to the room and asked the occupants politely but firmly to turn it down, but tonight he just pushed some foam plugs into his ears as he climbed into bed. He lay down, knowing that sleep would probably elude him anyway.

He dreaded seeing Ryoma, dreaded the disorder and unrest it would make him feel. Yet, he reflected, thinking of his old condition, avoiding Ryoma had clearly achieved nothing. He had little to lose. He remembered Tachibana's pinched expression and felt guilt roll through him. He knew he had to mend this somehow.

He did fall asleep eventually, the bass-line of the music from upstairs lulling him like a second heartbeat in his chest.

~

Tezuka breakfasted in his room and tried not to anticipate the morning's encounter. He could not play, so had no idea what he could do that would possibly affect Ryoma's behaviour in the short space of time before the end of the tournament. Fuji's throwaway comment about Tezuka's lightest word having great weight with Ryoma hadn't helped. He had arranged to meet Fuji in the foyer and they would drive to the tournament grounds. He was waiting for the lift when he heard the ping and the doors opened onto one other passenger.

It was Ryoma.

The universe slowed to a gentle stop as they stared at each other, dumb with surprise, before the lift doors started to close.

Tezuka dove for the call-button at the same time as Ryoma shoved his arm between the doors, muttering _shit, shit, shit_ and just as Ryoma was about to be squashed, the doors hiccupped and jerked back open. Tezuka stepped inside and the lift began to descend. They spoke at the same time.

'Hi.'

'Hello.'

They tried again.

'I didn't know…'

'I wasn't expecting…'

Every time Tezuka had seen this kind of thing happen in films, the couple would end up laughing and looking away shyly, but he and Ryoma looked at each other in dismay and frustration. The only thing Tezuka could think was that in a few seconds the lift would reach the foyer and the doors would open, letting in the outside world. Without thinking, he reached out to the panel of buttons that controlled the lift and selected the largest and reddest of them. The lift juddered to a halt, then was still. He realised too late that an alarm might have been activated, but if so, it was not within earshot. He calculated that they had five, maybe ten minutes. Ryoma was the first to speak.

'OK,' he said, as if Tezuka had done nothing out of the ordinary. 'Now tell me what the fuck you're doing here,' he added, meeting Tezuka's gaze levelly.

Tezuka had expected hostility, but he had to steel himself against the unhappiness he saw in Ryoma's eyes. They didn't have much time. He took a breath.

'Tachibana asked me here to make sure you start playing properly before you get thrown out of this tournament and possibly sabotage any hope of a professional tennis career.'

'Why is it any business of yours?'

'Because as your mentor, your behaviour reflects on me.'

The light in the lift was bright and Tezuka saw when Ryoma's lower lip wavered a little before he set his jaw to hide it.

'I'm winning my matches.'

'You are damaging your equipment and you are treating everyone around you with disrespect, including Tachibana. That is not the behaviour of a champion.'

'And flaking out of easy matches because of an iffy shoulder is?'

Tezuka felt sucker-punched. He'd had no idea Ryoma would have known. When he was playing, Tezuka was unaware of anything going on in the wider world, tennis-related or not. He assumed Ryoma would be the same.

'I had an attack of yips. I could not continue to play,' Tezuka replied stiffly.

'Isn't that psychosomatic?' Ryoma flipped back. He looked mulish now. 'What was on your mind, Tezuka-sensei?'

His mouth was set in a crooked, unhappy line and his eyes were glassy. Tezuka wanted to smooth away the crookedness with his thumb. With his mouth.

This was not what he had foreseen.

The confusion of the sudden meeting, the odd circumstances and the awkward exchange had temporarily masked just how unprepared Tezuka was for the physical effect of Ryoma's presence. Tezuka realised that even if they had met sensibly, over tea, with a table between them and witnesses, he would still have been completely undone.

'Not necessarily,' he said quietly, looking at the lift-wall beyond Ryoma's ear. 'Recent research has shown that yips may have a physical comp…'

'Bullshit.'

Ryoma's interruption was quiet but emphatic, and it made Tezuka's shoulders jump. He took an involuntary step back.

'Something was bugging you.'

Tezuka dipped his head under the intensity of Ryoma's gaze.

'It is true that I may have been affected by non-physical matters in this case,' he murmured. 'But I…'

Tezuka faltered. All the fight had suddenly gone out of Ryoma.

'Why did you leave?' he said softly. There was no more confrontation, just a sincere question.

It cut through everything, and Tezuka couldn't answer it. He couldn't remember why he had left. He remembered his cab-ride home, and the list of sensible reasons he'd had for doing what he was doing, but none of them seemed to make sense anymore.

The silence was too long and Ryoma answered his own question.

'Because I'm a whore,' he said almost under his breath and then reached past Tezuka for the control panel and started pressing buttons randomly. 'How do we get this thing going again?'

His head was bent low and Tezuka couldn't see his face clearly, but he could see his jaw working, could almost feel the pressure as his teeth clenched and unclenched.

'No,' said Tezuka. 'No,' he said again, but his words were drowned out by sudden banging and a voice from above.

'Hello! Hello!' the voice called. 'Are you all right down there?'

Ryoma had stopped pressing buttons and was just resting his palm against the lift wall. Tezuka managed to dredge his voice from somewhere.

'Yes, we're fine!' he shouted back, shocked at how normal he sounded. He stared at the back of Ryoma's head.

'I'm so sorry Tezuka-san!' the voice said. 'I don't know what can have happened. We'll have you on the move in just a moment!'

Tezuka looked at the nape of Ryoma's neck, the knob of his spine exposed and vulnerable, and felt a physical pain at the top of his breastbone, as if someone was pressing a finger there too hard. He reached out a hand to Ryoma's shoulder, but the lift juddered back into life and Tezuka had to grab for the wall to stop himself falling. The lift began to move upwards and Ryoma straightened, not looking at Tezuka, staring ahead, untouchable. Too soon, the lift doors opened onto the manager with Fuji just behind him looking ready to tease. Amidst the flurry of apologies and bows and offers of complimentary bottles of champagne, Ryoma strode off down the corridor and disappeared down the stairs. After much insistent bowing and many offers of thanks and apologies for having been careless enough to get stuck in the lift, Tezuka managed to get rid of the manager and only he and Fuji were left standing in the hallway. Fuji had read the situation as soon as he'd seen Tezuka's face.

'I'll get the car,' he said, and Tezuka nodded wordlessly.

~

  
'So what are you going to do?'

'Perhaps my decision to stop hitting with him was rash. But I can't…'

'Can't play at the moment?'

'Not that.'

'Can't what, then?'

But Tezuka didn't answer. He looked out of the window for the rest of the journey. Fuji didn't push.

~

  
When they arrived at the practice courts Tachibana and Ryoma were already hitting together. Even though he had his back to them, Ryoma was visibly furious, smashing his returns and expending far too much energy for a practice match. Tachibana was giving as good as she got, but her tiredness was evident. She was the first to spot them as they walked onto the court. She had been about to serve but instead she put the ball in her pocket and walked over to them. Ryoma turned to see what the interruption was. When he saw Tezuka he immediately turned back to the court and started practicing his serve, flipping balls up from the ground between his racket and his foot, and pointedly ignoring them.

'Can I borrow a racket?' Tezuka asked Tachibana in a low voice.

Tachibana stared at him.

'Of course. Are you sure?'

Tezuka nodded, not wanting to actively voice a lie.

Tachibana went over to fetch a racket from her bag. Ryoma paused in his serve to watch her.

'Che, what are you doing? Your racket's…' Ryoma broke off as Tezuka walked past him and across to the other side, taking the racket from Tachibana on his way. He took up the receiver's position, holding the racket in his good hand.

'Please continue,' he said.

Ryoma looked at Tezuka for a few moments and then looked down, tapping his racket-head on the ground. Tezuka waited.

Eventually, without looking at Tezuka, Ryoma slid his hand into his pocket and brought out a ball. He bounced it meditatively once or twice, then suddenly stretched up to serve. It was a full first serve, as if he was across the court from his most powerful opponent in an important match. His feet came off the ground and he threw his whole body into it. The ball came thundering straight at Tezuka and he managed to lever a backhand return, almost pushing himself back against the ball, using its force to power his shot. Ryoma came to the net to send the ball flying into the opposite corner. As Ryoma was turning to the baseline to serve again, Tezuka wondered what possible use a half-broken professional could be to him. But they played nonetheless, and all things considered, it was not very different to the practice matches they had played before. Tezuka couldn't see how it would be enough, however. He had just smashed a lob into the opposite corner to take what would have been the third game, when he became aware of Tachibana's voice calling.

'... have to stop you, guys. Ryoma's due on court soon.'

Ryoma started walking towards his bags. It was too soon. Impulsively, Tezuka went to the net. After looking puzzled for a moment Ryoma came over. His cap was firmly on his head and Tezuka could see nothing except his sullen mouth as he offered his hand. Ryoma took it and they shook, but when he began to move away, Tezuka tightened his grip, not letting Ryoma go. Ryoma looked sharply up at him, the bill of his cap coming up so that Tezuka could see his eyes at last. There was a faint line of irritation between his brows. Tezuka held Ryoma's hand quite still and firm in his own.

'You are not a whore,' he said in a low voice. 'I have never thought that.' Tezuka held his gaze for another moment and then let him go. Ryoma slid his hand slowly from Tezuka's before moving off to pack his gear away.

Tezuka could only hope now.

  


~

  
They watched the match from the visitors' box, he and Fuji sitting either side of Tachibana. Tezuka knew he was drawing glances and whispers from the crowd, but ignored them. Ryoma was sitting in his chair, ready, waiting while his opponent unpacked and fiddled with his water bottles. Ryoma took swigs from his and jiggled his knee, staring straight ahead. He was visibly impatient. Suddenly, he looked directly at the visitors' box. Tezuka looked back for as long as the bill of his cap was turned in his direction, then watched as Ryoma looked down at the ground, arms resting on his knees, now still, his water-bottle held between his hands. Tezuka remembered when he had first seen Ryoma in Atobe's drawing-room. Ryoma's gaze had held him even then, even when Tezuka had no idea what he was.

Tezuka didn't flatter himself that the effect of his presence or his play or his parting words would have any immediate effect. He was braced for a match like the one he had seen the day before - interrupted by challenges and warnings, a spectacle in the worst sense. Tachibana was sitting slightly forward in her seat, tense: she was taking nothing for granted either. Fuji was relaxed, or as relaxed as Tezuka ever saw him: sitting back in his chair, hands on his lap, smiling serenely, his back straight, graceful. Tezuka reflected that there was something very old-fashioned about Fuji.

Finally, the players walked onto the court with the umpire for the coin-flip. The crowd settled and the match began. When one of Ryoma's shots was called out for the first time, the crowd bristled palpably, but nothing happened. He swiped at the air and muttered something under his breath, then walked calmly back to the baseline to receive. Tezuka sensed Tachibana relax slightly next to him.

Ryoma took the first two sets easily, and without broken rackets or exasperated umpires. When one game ended with a breathtaking rally - Ryoma's opponent clearly playing well beyond his usual capacity - and Ryoma took it with a beautifully judged cross-court lob, the crowd applauded the good play spontaneously. They were enjoying Ryoma's tennis now, and Tachibana leaned towards Tezuka and squeezed his forearm. Tezuka stole a glance at her, and saw that her brow was smooth and she was almost smiling.

Then at 5-3 to Ryoma in the third, something happened. He returned from a water-break agitated, and fluffed his serve several times. This might have been the moment for some shouting or racket abuse but Ryoma was visibly holding himself in check. But he was no longer as relaxed as he was. He seemed to have regressed to his old mental state, and something had happened to put him there. Tachibana was tense and sitting forward in her seat again, and Fuji's attention was fixed not on the game but on the crowd to their right, behind Ryoma's seat. Tezuka followed his gaze and at first he saw only the tennis crowd, men and women in casual sports clothes, well-groomed, some with sunglasses, others with caps - the same people he always saw when he looked up at a match.

Then his eye caught on a figure who stood out from the others, a figure sitting less neatly in his seat, his clothes darker, his face less cleanly shaven, his sunglasses more ostentatious. Was this who Fuji was looking at? Tezuka checked the line of Fuji's gaze and there could be no mistaking it - he was looking, no staring, straight at this man.

Ryoma was serving again. He was taking his time, bouncing the ball interminably, looking up, raising his racket, then lowering it again. His lips were moving as if he was self-coaching, bullying himself into better play, but this looked to be the winning game of the match for him. Suddenly, he looked up, laughed to himself and shouted something into the sky before launching a devastating serve. It took Tezuka a moment or two to register what Ryoma had said and then it came to him and echoed around his head as he watched Ryoma play what he was fairly sure would be his final game of the match.

 _Old man!_ Ryoma had shouted into the sky.

Tezuka made the connections.

He looked again at the raffish figure a few rows up from Ryoma's chair and realised that sitting across the court, watching his son play tennis for the first time in several years, was Echizen Nanjirou, former world no. 1, and Ryoma's father.

He looked back at Ryoma, playing a glorious rally for the match-point. He looked again at his father watching him. Nanjirou may have been slumped in his chair, affecting nonchalance, but where the crowd around him had the synchronised back-and-forth head movements of tennis spectators, he was completely still. He watched only his son.

'Tezuka-san,' Tachibana said, grasping his arm. She had spotted Nanjirou.

The crowd roared. Ryoma had taken the match and the tournament. He had battled his way onto the professional circuit in four months and if there were any scouts in the crowd, he was probably only a week or two away from a sponsorship deal that would mean he could stop taking Atobe's compromising wage. Tezuka felt Tachibana grip his upper arm hard enough to bruise and turned to see her smiling broadly and watching Ryoma pack up his gear and wave to the crowd. There were still a few scattered boos but the atmosphere was generally good-natured. Tezuka wondered if either Nanjirou or Ryoma would attempt to speak to the other, but when he looked over to where Nanjirou had been sitting the departing spectators were edging past an empty seat. He had gone. Ryoma seemed to pause for a moment in front of that area, but then made his way to the locker-room. In a moment he was out of sight.

'His father,' Tachibana said. 'His father was here. Do you think he's gone to speak to Ryoma? Or has he left? Do you think Ryoma's OK?' She growled with frustration. 'I can't go in the locker-rooms to check. Tezuka-san…?' she turned to Tezuka and Tezuka looked down at her and nodded.

'I'll go,' he said.

'Thank you.'

He wanted to tell her that she owed him nothing. He pressed her shoulder briefly and got up to make his way to the locker-rooms.

  
 _~end of part four~_

  



	5. Chapter 5

Tezuka pushed the door open into the familiar warm fug of a sports changing room. He could only see two other players, and even Ryoma's opponent seemed to have left. The room was L-shaped and he ventured further into the steamy warmth before Ryoma finally came into view, standing at the corner of the L, talking to someone out of sight. Tezuka stopped, not wanting to interrupt but not quite able to leave either. The voices of Ryoma and his invisible companion were muffled by the echoey sounds of the locker-room, but Tezuka could still make out their words.

'… mother sent me,' a deep voice was saying. 'She wanted me to make sure you were eating enough vegetables.'

Ryoma made a dismissive noise. Tezuka heard what must have been Nanjirou's voice again.

'I guess that thing you were doing with that guy didn't work out.'

'It worked out,' Ryoma said lightly. 'I just got back into tennis.'

'He get you into this tourney?'

'No!'

Tezuka heard a snort.

'Easy there, pipsqueak,' Nanjirou said and Tezuka found himself bristling involuntarily. 'I get it. You did it all by yourself. No-one helped.'

Tezuka knew he should return to Tachibana, and he turned to leave but Ryoma had spotted him and his manner changed. He slid his hands out of his pockets and his back straightened a little.

'No, old man, not no-one,' Ryoma said, looking at Tezuka now, but still addressing his father. 'I want you to meet someone.'

It took Tezuka a moment to process this, then realised what was expected of him and began to move towards Ryoma. He came to the corner and the dark, lounging shape of Echizen Nanjirou appeared in his peripheral vision.

'Dad, this is Tezuka Kunimitsu,' Ryoma said.

Tezuka turned towards Echizen Senior and bowed deeply.

'It is an honour to meet you Echizen-san.'

As he rose up from his bow, he found Nanjirou looking at him curiously over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes were shrewd and much kinder than Tezuka would have expected. It was no wonder he hid them – they would have completely destroyed his reputation as an arrogant buffoon.

'Huh. You're the guy who's putting Japan back on the tennis map,' he said.

'I do what little I can,' Tezuka said.

'Bullshit,' said Nanjirou mildly. 'You know how good you are. Still not as good as me though,' he added, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

'Yeah, yeah,' Ryoma interjected. 'But he won't be dumb enough to have a kid and screw up his career and in a year he'll be better than you.' said Ryoma.

'Don't flatter yourself. I was bored. I retired.' Nanjirou turned back to Tezuka. 'So you're the kid's coach, eh?'

'No, actually. That is Tachibana-san.'

'Tachibana.' Nanjirou thought for a minute. 'Didn't he go to that public school? Seigaku always kicked their asses. I didn't know he was coaching.'

'Ah, no. Tachibana An. She is Kippei's sister.'

Nanjirou looked at Ryoma over his glasses for a moment and then hooted with laughter.

'A girl!' Nanjirou sang. 'You're being coached by a girl.' He clutched his stomach theatrically. Ryoma looked unimpressed.

'So I guess Ryuzaki-sensei must have been a transvestite,' he said flatly.

Nanjirou settled.

'Yeah, she probably was,' he said. 'So,' he continued, turning back to Tezuka. 'If you're not his coach, what are you?' Tezuka wasn't sure if there was some innuendo in the question, but he looked steadily at Nanjirou as he replied.

'I hit with Ryoma every now and then. I try to give him the benefit of my professional experience.'

'Yeah?' drawled Nanjirou. 'Well try and do something about his drop-shot. He always shanks it into the net.'

At this, Ryoma flipped his towel off the hook and glared at his father.

'I have to shower,' he said. 'But I bet Tezuka-sensei would love to hear about your top ten greatest winning drop-shots. Sorry I can't stick around.' He stalked off, leaving Tezuka thinking that he _would_ quite like to hear about Echizen Nanjirou's top ten greatest drop-shots, and then wondering what sort of traitor that made him.

Nanjirou levered himself off the bench and to Tezuka's vague horror, slung his arm familiarly round Tezuka's neck. 'Don't take any notice of him,' he said 'He always sulks in front of guys he likes. I used to tell him you catch more bees with honey than … Anyway…' Nanjirou clapped Tezuka's chest as if they were old friends. '…the first one was in the quarter-finals at Roland-Garros against Ilie Nastase. Man, that was a doozy…' and Tezuka let Nanjirou guide him back through the locker-room towards the exit, stunned into total silence.

~

  
Dinner that evening was interesting. Nanjirou told stories of his days on the circuit, Fuji hanging on his every word, whilst Ryoma interrupted to rein in Nanjirou's wilder exaggerations. Tachibana berated Ryoma for nearly bringing her coaching career to a premature end through heart attack whilst Tachibana and Nanjirou started out circling each other like suspicious cats, but by the end of the meal were absorbed in a complicated conversation about Ryoma's training techniques and no one else could get a word in edgeways. Ryoma avoided Tezuka's eye and didn't speak directly to him at any point, and Tezuka thought that perhaps Nanjirou didn't know his son as well as he thought.

Finally, Fuji managed to get a word in and asked Tachibana what her plans were for the rest of Ryoma's year. 'I think we might have some pretty good sponsorship lined up,' she said. 'We'll try and make it to a couple of the Challenger tourneys in the States later in the year. He might get a wild-card entry into the Open.'

'You'll be in America then, won't you Tezuka?' Fuji said.

'Certainly. For Cincinatti, and the Open of course.'

'You might get to play each other.'

Tezuka inclined his head. 'Indeed,' he said. Tezuka thought about meeting Ryoma on the professional circuit and felt his body stir in anticipation. He looked at Ryoma but he was tilting back in his chair and signalling to the waiter for more water.

'You better beat him, kiddo,' commented Nanjirou helpfully. 'His shoulder should make him a walkover.'

Tachibana rolled her eyes. 'It'll be better by then and Tezuka on form is impossible to beat,' she said.

'Hey coach,' Ryoma said, bringing his chair down with a thump and punching her arm. 'You're supposed to be supporting me.'

'I am sure Ryoma will prove a challenge,' Tezuka said, which made Ryoma look at him for the first time. The smirk he'd directed at Tachibana faded.

'Hear that, kiddo,' Nanjirou cut in. 'He's ready for you. You better be ready for him.'

But Ryoma's face had reverted to an uninterested mask.

'Yeah,' he commented noncommittally, and turned to Tachibana and Fuji who were discussing Fudomine's chances in the Nationals.

~

  
Tezuka packed away his few things ready to leave the next day and as he got ready for bed he reflected on his conversation with Fuji after dinner. They had left Tachibana refereeing an unruly ping-pong match between father and son in the games room, and had gone for a stroll around the gardens. There was an artificial lake with a small waterfall at one end. Not as large or as lovely as the one at Atobe's, but still respectable.

'Who do you think will win the table tennis?' asked Fuji, as they made their way along the path that led around the water, swiping at the air with a willow branch he had picked up.

'Tachibana, I would imagine.'

Fuji let out a soft 'chuh' of laughter.

'I was going to say Ryoma, but you're probably right.'

'Not Nanjirou?' Tezuka looked sidelong at Fuji.

'I think Ryoma's feeling a little punchy this evening.' Fuji said, ignoring Tezuka's hint.

'He is back on form. Having his father here is good for him.'

'He was strange with you at dinner.' Fuji returned Tezuka's slant look.

Tezuka thought it was too subtle for anyone but him to have noticed. They paused by the lake and Tezuka looked out across the water into the low evening sun. Fuji stirred the surface with his willow wand.

'If I had to guess,' he mused, 'I'd say he was still angry with you.'

'Possibly. I will try not to let it affect our professional relationship.'

'So you will continue to have a professional relationship?'

'Yes. I see now that it is a good thing.'

'What about a non-professional relationship?'

Tezuka sensed Fuji looking at him, but he did not return the look, his hands in his pockets.

'We don't have one,' he replied shortly.

'Do you want one?'

He felt something inside him, far away, easy to ignore, reply in the affirmative. Damn Fuji.

'It wouldn't be appropriate. And I don't want distractions at this stage of my career.'

'You're already distracted,' Fuji said on a breath of laughter. 'What have you got to lose?'

'I need to focus.' Tezuka dug his hands further inside his pockets. 'Research has shown that romantic relationships can have a deleterious effect on one's game.'

There was a long silence and Tezuka finally looked at Fuji, who was looking at him as if he was mad.

'I don't believe you,' Fuji said.

'I can email you the link, if you like.'

'Kunimitsu, has it not occurred to you that part of the reason your game is off is because you keep pushing Ryoma away? That that's why he's angry with you? That you can't run your life according to the latest research, or what might be appropriate. Life isn't like that. _Tennis_ isn't like that, for heaven's sakes, you know that at least.'

Tezuka hadn't been able to answer.

He set his phone-alarm for 6.30 and lay back, drawing the covers over himself. As he closed his eyes, he became aware of the same distant thud of music from the room above that had lulled him to sleep the night before. He wasn't sure it would work a second time. He dragged on some trackpants and a t-shirt, trudged up the stairs and walked along the corridor above until he came to the door the music was coming from. He could hear a voice now, singing along, the lyrics garbled. He knocked and hoped the occupant would be able to hear. The door was flung open almost immediately and Tezuka had a flashback to the moment this morning when the lift-doors had opened. It was Ryoma, of course. This time he was dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers and was clearly in the middle of brushing his teeth. The music blasted out of the room around him, and just as they had that morning, they stared at each other, unmoving. Ryoma's toothbrush was frozen in his hand, halfway to his mouth. Toothpaste-y water trickled down his wrist.

'Shit,' he said eventually, his diction muffled by toothpaste, and turned back into the room. He grabbed a towel from the bed, and picked up the small remote device, pointing it at the iPod in its speaker-nest. The music softened. Ryoma turned, wiping his mouth with the towel.

'Hey,' he said, dropping the towel back on the bed. 'I didn't…'

'I came to ask you to turn the music down. I didn't realise this was your room.'

'Oh,' Ryoma said coolly. 'Well. There you go,' he said gesturing at the iPod. 'You can sleep easy now.'

Tezuka bowed, knowing he was being ridiculously formal, but not able to stop himself.

'Thank you,' he said, straightening up. Ryoma looked amused, then bowed deeply in return.

' _Do itashimashite_ ,' he said solemnly.

'You are mocking me,' when Ryoma was at eye-level.

'Yes,' agreed Ryoma.

Tezuka dipped his head, feeling his cheeks burn.

'Thank you for turning the music down,' he said, moving to leave.

He felt Ryoma's hand on his arm.

'Wait.'

Tezuka turned to see a challenge in Ryoma's face.

'You still haven't answered my question,' Ryoma said.

'I beg your pardon?'

'If you don't think I'm a whore, then why did you leave that night?'

Ryoma's hand was warm on the bare skin of his arm. As much as he didn't want to answer this question Tezuka knew he had an opportunity now to clear the air, to make some sort of professioanl relationship between them possible. He found the answer he hadn't been able to give that morning.

'Because I thought I was doing the right thing,' he said. 'I had behaved badly and I was trying to put it right.'

'Behaved badly.'

'I had taken advantage of you. I was no better than those men who had paid you.'

Ryoma looked at him with an incomprehension very similar to Fuji's earlier.

'But I _wanted_ you,' he said irritably.

'I…' Tezuka faltered. 'I know.'

And he had known, not out of conceit or vanity, but because Ryoma's desire had made him so lovely.

Oh dear. This was not clearing the air.

'Then I don't get it,' Ryoma said softly. 'You don't make any sense.'

Ryoma was standing very close to him. Tezuka couldn't think properly. He wished he hadn't left his room. He could have just let the music play on, lulling him to sleep like the night before.

'I can't …' he began.

He closed his eyes. This was terrible.

'I want…' he tried again.

He had never needed so badly to express himself and found himself so comprehensively unable. He felt weak. He felt a fool.

He felt a mouth against his. It pressed gently without opening, holding him still.

His hands hung uselessly at his sides, and he thought that this was the third time Ryoma had ambushed him with his mouth. He felt his body surrender utterly, predictably. How he wanted Ryoma, always, without fail, without resistance. He knew he should push him away, try to talk sensibly about how they could move forward together, but instead he raised one of his useless hands to cup Ryoma's face and gathered Ryoma to him and let Ryoma lead him to the bed. They fell onto it, just as they had done a few weeks before in Ryoma's tiny flat. This time they found each other instantly, knowing each other's bodies, fitting together without thinking. He pressed Ryoma into the bed and felt Ryoma's thighs move up around his waist and his toes hook into the waistband of his trackpants to tug them down, then he was being pushed onto his back, his t-shirt was being pushed into his armpits and as Ryoma pressed open-mouthed kisses to his chest, Tezuka threaded his fingers through Ryoma's hair. 'Arms,' Ryoma murmured, and Tezuka, feeling like an obedient child, raised them so Ryoma could pull the t-shirt over his head. Somewhere around Tezuka's elbows, Ryoma seemed to forget about undressing him and they just lay against each other, cocks touching, Ryoma holding the t-shirt loosely as they kissed and moved gently against each other and Tezuka felt himself surrounded in Ryoma's scent and skin and breath.

'Not leaving in the middle of the night now are you?' Ryoma mumbled indistinctly into the skin at the junction of shoulder and neck. The tickle of his breath made Tezuka's erection throb pleasantly but the question made him still.

He could not answer it. If he said no, he would be agreeing not just to spending the night with Ryoma, but to further liaisons, to an ongoing connection of some sort. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. He wanted to talk to Ryoma about this gently, soberly, but god knew now was not the time.

He had hesitated too long. Ryoma had been nibbling his way up Tezuka's neck, but now he paused just underneath his earlobe and said in a deadly quiet voice, 'You can answer that any time you like.'

'Ryoma…' he said carefully. Ryoma went very still.

And then a moment later Tezuka was reminded of how strong and quick and unpredictable Ryoma could be, because he suddenly slid the t-shirt the rest of the way up Tezuka's arms, bundled it around his hands, crossed his wrists, and tightened the fabric around them. Then with one good yank – and to Tezuka's utter shock – Ryoma had Tezuka's bound hands hooked over the bedpost above his head. Tezuka tugged at his bonds thinking a bundled-up t-shirt couldn't possibly hold him, but Ryoma had manipulated the material so ingeniously that he found himself stuck fast. This was a joke, surely. He would have to move his whole body up to get the bindings back over the bedpost, but Ryoma was straddling him, pinning him down.

'Ryoma…' said Tezuka warningly, arching up even though he knew it would do no good.

'You won't be leaving in the middle of the night now, will you?' Ryoma replied calmly, riding Tezuka's movements, and Tezuka felt a flash of real anger.

'Untie me,' he commanded.

Ryoma raised an eyebrow.

'Or what?' he said.

No-one had ever balked him like this before.

'I am not bargaining with you, Ryoma. Release me.'

Ryoma looked at him speculatively for a few moments. Then without replying, he leaned across Tezuka to the night-stand, his face tantalisingly close as he rummaged in the drawer. Heat was radiating off him and Tezuka could see his pupils were blown wide. Then he found what he was looking for and sat back on his heels. He squeezed the tube into his palm before discarding it and rubbed his palms together slowly, holding Tezuka's gaze. Tezuka shook his head inarticulately.

'No,' he managed.

But Ryoma ignored him and reached behind him to grasp Tezuka's cock, his hands slick with lube that was - despite his effort to warm it - still chilly. It made Tezuka's breath stutter. Ryoma's grip was firm as he stroked Tezuka, then himself, and Tezuka thought helplessly about fucking him, about being inside him. His eyes sank shut and he let out a shaky breath.

'Good, isn't it?' said Ryoma quietly, his tone forgiving now.

Tezuka nodded wordlessly.

He wanted this so much, and yet, not like this.

Then he felt Ryoma's body lying against his, chest to chest, as they had been before, and Ryoma's breath was against his lips. It should have been the most natural thing in the world at this moment to put his hands on Ryoma's hips, perhaps slide one down Ryoma's thigh, but he could not move. His shoulders were beginning to throb.

'I'm not going to untie you,' Ryoma whispered against his mouth and Tezuka gave in to a small wave of despair. Then Ryoma's body was gone, and Tezuka opened his eyes to see Ryoma sitting over him once more, looking down at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He reached behind himself again, took Tezuka's prick momentarily in his hand and raised himself so that Tezuka could feel it lodged at his entrance, making Tezuka's breath stop in his lungs.

'But I am going to fuck you,' he said, sinking down, engulfing Tezuka in the heat of his body.

Tezuka felt it like a knife of pleasure in his brain, and almost came from that one downward stroke. He gasped and rode the waves of this false shadow-orgasm, his consciousness shorting-out for split-seconds as Ryoma rocked back and forth, eyes unfocussed and breathing carefully as he took Tezuka all the way in. And although it made the muscles in Tezuka's arms twinge and he felt a strange sense of self-betrayal, he couldn't help but press up inside Ryoma, forcing soft cries from both of them.

'God, you're beautiful,' he heard Ryoma whisper, almost talking to himself.

It was sweet torture. Tezuka's prick was sheathed in liquid heat whilst delicate arrows of pain darted from his shoulders down his arms. He was a bow, strung between pain and pleasure, slowly being stretched to its full extent. Gradually Ryoma began to move, finding a rhythm, his own prick full, suffused with blood, the head glistening with pre-come and Tezuka couldn't help but imagine how it would feel in his hand, like steel in velvet. Ryoma lowered one of his hands to wrap around it and Tezuka called out 'no!' in a convulsive whisper, but could only watch in mounting frustration as Ryoma moved his hand sensually over himself. Tezuka ached to touch him. He struggled pointlessly against the ties once more, though he knew it would do no good, only making his biceps protest and setting off a fresh shower of sparking sensation where his and Ryoma's bodies were joined.

'Please,' he whispered miserably, abject, a shadow of his former commanding self.

But Ryoma said nothing, only raised his hips, steadying himself gently with his fingertips against Tezuka's chest, and sank down onto him again, obliterating all thought. Tezuka drove up into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, trying to take what he could. Ryoma was riding him and it should have been wonderful, but only one part of him was experiencing this extraordinary pleasure, while the rest of his body was naked and cold and untouched.

It wasn't what he wanted.

He wanted to touch Ryoma, to pin him down, to kiss him, to hold him in his arms, to feel his reciprocal touch. This exquisite pleasure was a pale version of what he knew he could have. And lying there, with his arms above his head, hopelessly disabled, having only half an experience, he finally let himself admit something he had been pushing away since the moment he had met Ryoma.

Ryoma's eyes were closed, his expression one of transport, his breaths sighing out of him with each downward stroke.

 _Please let him understand_ , Tezuka thought.

'Ryoma,' he said gently. He did not plead or command, but spoke his name as if for the first time: as the answer to a question, as the final word in a long argument. He said it again. Slowly, Ryoma opened his eyes. They looked at each other, Ryoma moving gently above him and at that moment Tezuka felt how he wanted to keep Ryoma beside him for a long time, and he let it show on his face. Ryoma stilled, on the brink of something, before he finally seemed to come to a decision and leaned forward to reach for Tezuka's bindings. He lifted them over the bedpost, crooning 'sshh,' when Tezuka let out a small involuntary cry as his arms were stretched to their full extent. Tezuka watched him as he began to free Tezuka's hands from the t-shirt, hurrying now, the colour high in his cheeks, a frustrated frown on his brows, impatient at how his fumbling hands impeded him. Finally Tezuka was free and although his arms and shoulders protested searingly at the contrary movement, he could no more have stopped himself embracing Ryoma than he could have stopped breathing. They curled into each other, Ryoma whispering 'I'm sorry' into Tezuka's hair and they moved jerkily, skip-and-jumping their way towards orgasm, shaking against each other, not so much kissing as holding their open mouths together, and Tezuka felt Ryoma's prick in his hand, exactly as he had imagined, and Ryoma's body pulsated around his own , then liquid warmth was lacing his fingers and spurting against his chest as he thrust up one last time inside Ryoma, his vision turning red as he came and came and came.

They clung to each other for some time afterwards, panting, before Ryoma tipped backwards and Tezuka followed, no longer inside him, but unwilling to let go. They dozed, lying sprawled against each other.

They woke eventually and Tezuka moved down Ryoma's body, pressing kisses to his chest and abdomen before swallowing his cock to the root, containing Ryoma's bucking body in his arms, and feeling Ryoma's fingers tangle painfully in his hair. He felt greedy and unconstrained, like a Roman at the fall of Empire.

He filled his hands with Ryoma that night, making up for all the time he had spent with his arms bound, making up for all the times he had wanted Ryoma and stopped himself, for all the times he had restrained himself out of some misguided sense of propriety. He gave himself, and Ryoma took him, consummating something that had been months in the making. Tezuka knew that his life now, on the surface unchanged, would be immeasurably different, and although it made him a little afraid, he knew too that it could not be any other way.

~

  
 _Epilogue_

>  **Samurai Junior Through to US Open Quarters**
> 
> Echizen Ryoma will play in the quarter-finals of a Grand Slam tournament only months after his dramatic entrance onto the professional circuit at the Kyoto Futures in May. That controversial tournament – from which he was nearly disqualified for aggressive behaviour – also saw him revealed as the estranged son of former world number one, Echizen 'Samurai' Nanjirou. With this win he has proven himself worthy of the name, and one of the most exciting players of his generation.
> 
> At the post-match press conference he denied links with the renowned – some would say notorious – socialite and impresario, Atobe Keigo. Asked for comment, the eccentric millionaire, (speaking from his Tokyo base) said, 'That pipsqueak? Ore-sama does not associate with wannabes. Tell him to come see me when he has a million in the bank and at least three trophies on his shelf.'
> 
> Echizen def. Wawrinka, 2-6, 6-3, 7-5, 6-1. He will face fellow Japanese, Tezuka Kunimitsu, in the quarter-final on Wednesday.
> 
> Full US Open report, pages 25-6.

'Idiots,' Ryoma growled, tossing the paper aside in disgust. 'They didn't even talk about the match. They just want gossip.'

'Well,' said Fuji, picking up the paper, 'You have to admit, it's pretty impressive gossip.'

They were taking a break on the practice courts. Fuji had been spectating.

'Come on,' An chimed in 'You're "one of the most exciting players of your generation".'

'Che,' responded Ryoma decisively.

'And it was kind of Atobe to say what he did,' put in a deep voice, making them all look up.

'Tezuka-san,' said An, bobbing her head.

'Hey,' said Ryoma softly, making An look at him keenly. She could have sworn she saw the tips of ears glowing.

'Kind?' said Fuji. 'I'd say it was more clever than kind. Yes, it let Ryoma off the hook, but it also keeps the door open for Ryoma to become one of his legitimate guests.'

'Hello,' said Tezuka, completely ignoring Fuji and speaking in a tone that made An swivel to stare at him. Tezuka Kunimitsu, who could make the entire school circuit quake with just the sardonic lift of an eyebrow, was speaking with a voice like molten honey.

'I am looking forward to tomorrow's match,' he went on, looking at Ryoma precisely as if no-one else on the planet existed. An boggled. She didn't think she'd ever seen him this focused, even while playing.

'Uh,' said Ryoma.

Oh my god, was he… tongue-tied?

'Me too,' he seemed to manage. And it wasn't just his ears that were glowing now either.

Fuji had mentioned something about the two of them, but she hadn't expected to have it confirmed quite so obviously.

She had totally lost her bet with Sakuno. An would tell her all about it over the dinner she owed her.

~

  
Depending on how you looked at it, Fuji's sense of timing was either impeccable or appalling. He had appeared in the locker-room ten minutes before they were due on court with good luck wishes and a bouquet for each of them.

'I have to get to the junior doubles,' he informed them after he had presented their flowers. 'There's a promising Czech boy playing at 2pm.' Tezuka gratefully thought he had come to distract Ryoma and himself from the oddness of facing each other in their first professional match. He wasn't nervous, but he was experiencing a churning mix of anticipation, worry and desire that was unfamiliar and disturbing to him.

Then Fuji darted towards Ryoma, saying 'I hope you win' before kissing him full on the lips, and Tezuka had to revise his opinion of Fuji's methods of distraction.

But before he had time to protest Fuji was turning to him to do the same, leaning in to murmur 'I hope you win too,' before pressing a brief but compelling kiss to his lips. Then he was gone, a blur leaving the locker-room door swinging closed, and an official was coming forward to ask if they were ready. Tezuka wondered if he had witnessed what had just happened.

As Tezuka followed Ryoma towards the player's exit, he could still feel the ghost of Fuji's lips against his, and even though he had known Fuji for years, even though they had long ago realised that theirs was not that kind of love, he thought helplessly of two sets of tanned limbs twining around his own, and two sets of lips pressed to his skin before he was woken from his reverie by Ryoma's low voice.

'Hey, buchou,' he said. Tezuka glanced at him and saw Ryoma touching his mouth, and smiling a small, secret smile. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

Tezuka looked straight ahead.

'Certainly not,' he said.

The official had signalled them to stop just inside the exit while he spoke urgently into his walkie-talkie, and he and Ryoma were standing side-by-side, waiting to be ushered on court.

'Che,' he heard, the smile unmistakable in Ryoma's voice. 'You're boring.'

The official nodded the all-clear and turned to lead them outside. Tezuka slid his fingers briefly into Ryoma's and felt an answering squeeze before they let go, and together they walked out into the sunlit stadium.

  
 _~fin~_


End file.
